The Repopulation: The Price of Freedom
by Hawki
Summary: Over two centuries ago, the 'Northern Star' left Earth, carrying with it the future of humanity. Rhyldan would be that future. But as tensions arose, and as threats persisted, that future was called into question. And all would pay the price.
1. Life

_Nearly three centuries ago, a group of scientists and politicians and adventurers saw the destruction of Earth was imminent and started planning. They gathered together DNA samples of the best and brightest that Rarth had to offer across all races and classes. They sent out highly automated colony ships to as many planets as possible that had the potential to support human life. _

_One ship, the _Northern Star_, was successful. One planet, Rhyldan, was found._

A History of Rhyldan (excerpt)

* * *

**The Repopulation: The Price of Freedom**

**Chapter 1: Life**

"Welcome to the jungle Private. Problem is, it won't welcome you back. Everything wants to kill you, and chances are they'll succeed. So while cloning takes care of _that _particular problem, let me tell you, it ain't pretty, dying. There's no angels, no gods, no bright white light that wants you to step into it. And the Council hates useless people, and let me tell you, with the hellspawn of Rhyldan wanting us all dead, the List is pretty long. So word of advice Private – shoot first, don't stop shooting, and try not to die. Got it?"

"Got it Sir."

"Good. And I'm not a 'sir.'"

That exchange had occurred ten years ago. In the span of those ten years, Obore Daniels had been killed twice, and severely wounded a third time. He'd narrowly managed dying by pointing out to Dinh that it would cost fewer resources to treat him - the List was long, it was expensive to clone a new body and download his stored memories, and while it would cost him much, it would cost the Council much less to patch him up in the infirmary. Though he wondered how much it would cost them to give patrol grunts like himself decent body armour.

_So here I am, _Obore reflected, gripping his rifle as he made his way through the forest that surrounded the settlement of Plymouth – more of it being cleared each year, but still remaining as dangerous.

_A sergeant too. You see that coming?_

Dinh couldn't answer. He'd lost his head two years ago, and the judair limited installed in his brain had joined its occupant's head in a setlang's stomach. So while then-Sergeant Dinh Long had eventually been cloned again, the current Dinh, now a private, had no memories of the man he had once outranked. The man who now outranked _him_.

"Charlie Three, reporting."

The man who had just contacted him.

"Charlie Two, reporting."

"Charlie One, reporting," Obore said into his pocket radio. "Resume communication in ten minutes."

"Charlie Two, acknowledged."

"Charlie Three, acknowledged. I'll holler if I see anything, Sir."

_I'm not a Sir._

Obore stopped for a moment to take out his canteen, looking up at the twilight sky as the planet's single sun set. Rhyldan was a lot like Terra. The temperature and atmosphere was similar, the gravity was similar, the flora, and even some of the fauna was similar. But the night sky was different. Not that Obore had any memories of what the sky might have looked from humanity's homeworld, but he understood astronomy well enough to understand it would have looked nothing like Rhyldan's.

"Charlie One, this is Charlie Two. I…think I've got movement."

"You think?"

"I'll…clarify that."

Obore returned his canteen to his belt. There would have been another difference on Terra, he reflected. On Terra, humanity was the sole intelligent species. On Rhyldan, that was-

"Shit! Contacts!"

Different.

"Come in Two!" Obore yelled into his radio, pressing one hand to his ear while holding his rifle in the other. "What's your situation?!"

"Fucked up, that's my fucking situation!"

"Corporal Chelsea, please-"

"Shit! Just get here!"

"Chelsea, what-"

"Shit!"

Charlie Two wasn't responding. But it made no difference. He could hear the sound of gunfire from his ears, and from said sound, there were a lot of guns involved.

_Lesoo. Fucking lesoo!  
_"Charlie Two, hold on! Charlie Three, converge on Charlie Two."

"But Sir-"

"I'm not a Sir!" Obore yelled, sprinting through the forest as he did so. "Just move!"

Autumn leaves crunched under his boots. Like Terra, Rhyldan had seasons. Unlike Terra, it had alien psychotics called lesoo. Aliens who operated on a stone age level, but were smart enough to work out how some human tech worked. And once some of those lesoo had realized that pulling the trigger of a rifle could generate a rather spectacular effect of blood and guts, they'd taken to it like maggots to a corpse. Corpses like his own the last two times he'd died. Corpses like the body of Corporal Jayne Chelsea, now lying against a tree with a trio of red holes in her chest. Corpses like the pair of lesoo that were lying on the ground in front of her.

"Fuck!"

Corpses that the other three lesoo would soon become.

Obore had enough of a sense of self-preservation to take cover behind a tree as the lesoo opened fire. Taller than humans, they were easier to hit, but with a thick brown hide and great strength, they were harder to kill as well. But they were stupid. Smart enough to shoot, but reloading was still a mysterious process to them. So when bullets stopped hitting the tree he was hiding behind, he popped out and opened fire himself.

"Die! Just fucking die!"

He kept firing. One of the lesoo was hit, and was taken out by gunfire from another angle. Dinh had arrived, and for all the inexperience of this cloned version, he had enough sense to stick behind cover as well.

_Two more._

The lesoo started falling back. One started to flee. Obore popped a round in its skull. He watched as it fell to the ground. He watched as its ally tried to reach for him, but was forced to recoil as he opened fire. He watched as that lesoo ran also, taking a round to the leg, but still moving like it was a pinprick.

"That's right, run!" he heard Dinh shout. "Run you bone-head!"

Bone head. A slang term for the lesoo's primitive state, and that their skulls were thick physiologically as well. Obore could have thought of a dozen better insults, but as he lowered his rifle, he found himself too tired to care.

"Obore…"

And too concerned about Jayne as well.

"Hey there…" he whispered, getting down on one knee and propping his rifle on his palm. "You okay?"

Jayne coughed up some blood. "Does it look like I'm okay?"

"Nah," Dinh said. "You look like-"

"Get on point Private," Obore snapped.

If Dinh responded, Obore didn't hear or see it. He just kept looking at Jayne, not wanting his former superior any nearer. The man's handling of comrades' deaths was terrible, and it looked like a lack of memory hadn't changed that.

_But am I any better?_

"I'm sorry," Obore said, taking her hand. "I…I mean…we shouldn't be so spread out. The Council might-"

"Oh lighten up," Jayne smiled, even as more blood came out of her lips. "I've died before. I'll die again provided I stick in a soldier position."

_And did you choose that position? _Obore wondered. _Did I?_

"I mean, it might save time if you-"

_Been a soldier as long as I can remember. Cloned to be one. Again and again._

"-if you just shoot me now."

"What?" Obore exclaimed.

"Yeah," Jayne said, smiling. "Quick pop through the skull. I'll bleed out before you get me back to Plymouth anyway."

"Jayne, I…" Obore got to his feet. "I…I can't…I mean…"

"For goodness sake Obore, just shoot me! Just get it over with. I mean, sure, a headshot might hit my judair but other than that…

Obore just stood there. How many times had Jayne Chelsea died? How many deaths did it take to make one value their own life so cheaply? How many more deaths did he have to have before he reached the same state? He didn't know, but never had he had to kill her himself.

"Obore…" Jayne said, her already pale face even paler. Her blue eyes met his brown. "Just…it hurts…just…k…k'k…kill…"

And then she died. Died as her chest erupted in spasms of blood as bullets tore into it.

"Shit!" Obore exclaimed. Grabbing his rifle, he spun around, only to find Dinh holding his own gun. "What the hell did you do?!"

"What Corporal Jayne Chelsea was asking you to do," the private said, walking over and feeling for the woman's pulse. He looked up at his superior as he did so. "You a sadist or something? Why'd you wait so long?"

Obore just stood there. Dinh was right, he supposed. On some level of the morality spectrum at least. The part that made it more merciful to just kill wounded than trying to get them help. The part that even being a copy of two former men himself, just seemed _wrong_.

"I mean, we're all just clones," Dinh said, closing Jayne's eyes and getting to his feet. "She'll be back in the field before we know it."

Obore still remained silent. He looked at where the lesoo had come from, where one of their number still was, the bodies of their fallen under the setting sun. What was the point of alien attacks when humans seemed so intent on killing their own kind?

"Anyway," Dinh said, holstering his rifle. "We should get back. The Council will want a report on the casualty."

Obore snorted as the private began to walk away. "You always were an authoritarian bastard," he murmured.

"What?" Dinh said, turning back at his superior. "What did you say?"

Obore met the man's gaze. It was, even now, like seeing a ghost. The same Asian features. The same black hair. Same slightly distinct nose. All but the scar the original Sergeant Long had picked up on his right cheek before he died. An individual that Private Long was now on track to becoming again.

"Nothing," Obore said, hanging his rifle over his back as well. "I said nothing."

A lie. An utter fabrication.

Casting one last look at Jayne's body as Dinh shrugged and walked off, sometimes Obore Daniels wondered if the same could be said for his entire existence.


	2. Service

_During the journey to Rhyldan, important scientific advances were made, including the ability to imprint memories into humans. They called this the Judair Limiter technology and it let them capture a 'snapshot' of a person's memories, emotions, and skills. The result was that the first generation of humans to leave Earth was the only one, as each individual was cloned in the event of death, to ensure that their role on the _Northern Star _could be maintained constantly. Every person on Rhyldan has a memory stretching over two centuries. While the memory transfer is not perfect, and some memories will fade over time (older ones), most people on Rhyldan can recall Earth in some form or another. Old lives, old jobs, etc._

_Which is potentially problematic. Because when you're a clone, you're cloned for one thing. And that's to do the job you were cloned to do. Regardless of who you once were. Or who you might want to be._

Rhyldan Reflections: Rise and Fall (excerpt)

* * *

**The Repopulation: The Price of Freedom**

**Chapter 2: Service**

Technically, Plymouth was a town. But Obore saw it as being more of a fortress.

It came from being outside it so much, he supposed. Because making his way across open land that had once housed forest, headed towards the open gates of the wall that surrounded the settlement, he felt more like he was returning to base than a home. Maybe homes on Terra had guards on those walls and auto-turrets with bio-sensors that would shoot at any ground creature that wasn't human, but he didn't count on it. He had a memory that stretched over nearly three centuries, but some things escaped him. And the more that time went on, the more he forgot about his original home.

_And last I heard, there was no non-human life on Terra that could use our own weapons against us._

Wincing, Obore quickened his pace. Maybe Plymouth wasn't "home." But it was still more homely than the area surrounding it right now. With its broken trees, bare soil, and the bodies of beasts that had strayed too close to the auto-turrets…

_So much for coming in peace._

Actually, he recalled, when the _Northern Star _had first arrived, there was no-one to say "we come in peace" to. First contact with the lesoo had come only after the colony was established, and by then the colonists were willing to say "screw it" and act as humans did – expansionistic, individualistic, and act as the kind of species who turned towns into fortresses. The kind of species that had desk jockeys like Roberto Teano at the gatehouse. A.k.a. a tiny shed outside the currently open gate in the wall.

"You're late," he said, looking up from his data pad as Obore and Long approached. "What took you?"

"Lesoo."

"Ah," Roberto said, getting to his feet within the shed, putting his chair and pad to one side. "And, er, wasn't Jayne with you?"

"Dead," replied Long.

"Shame. Well, hopefully she'll get cloned soon."

_Right. To die again even sooner._

Obore went first up to the scanner that was attached to the shed. "Roberto" was an Italian name, but that was the only thing "Italian" about the gatekeeper. Everyone talked in standardized English anyway, and accents were a thing of the past. Such was the result of centuries of space travel and cultural homogenization.

"Hand here please."

What _wasn't _a thing of the past was bureaucracy. The need to have his hand and eyes scanned every time he left Plymouth, and every time he went back in. Because after all, Obore thought, lesoo had the brains and physical capacity to disguise themselves as humans.

"Nearly there."

The sergeant watched as a profile image of him appeared on a screen by the scanner. Brown hair a little longer, his face more cookie cutter, but otherwise, the same man he was when the photo was taken in a prior life. Same physically at least.

"All done. And…huh."

Obore barely listened. It wasn't for lesoo he told himself, it was because the Council wanted to keep tabs on its citizens, and leaving the settlement/fortress made that job a lot harder.

"Council wants to see you," Roberto said. "Immediate debriefing. Pertaining to the death of Corporal Chelsea."

Obore sighed as Long stepped forward to the scanner to begin the process again. "Is it really immediate?"

"You tell me."

"Fine," Obore said, rubbing his eyes and just wanting to go to sleep. "She's dead. Again. Council wants someone to yell at." He stopped the rubbing. "So no, it shouldn't be immediate. They must just be bored or something."

"Says the person who gets to go out and have fun. I'm the bloody gatekeeper."

"Yeah," Obore said as he removed his rifle's ammo clip, and mounted both clip and weapon on a tray that extended from the wall. A dispenser that would take both into storage. "What you were cloned for, right?"

Roberto didn't say anything. And Obore couldn't blame him.

Everyone was cloned for something. A specific task, a role in life.

Some just got more lucky than others.

* * *

"No, you listen to me! I waited here for four hours! Four! Fricking! Hours!"

"It's past five ma'am. Come back tomorrow."

"The hell I will! What the hell was the Council doing anyway?!"

"Meeting."

The woman let out an expletive. Something that went beyond "fricking," and many other colourful words in the English language. Words that not even Obore was familiar with. So with that in mind, he tried to escape her notice as she vented her spleen at Kostas and he tried to enter the Council building. In actual fact it was the former bridge of the _Northern Star_, the rest of the ship having been salvaged for construction materials. It was-

"Hey, what are you doing?!"

_Shit_.

Thoughts of architecture left Obore's mind. Thoughts of weariness replaced them as the woman met his eyes. Tough face, darkish skin, a build that suggested that whatever her line of work was, it involved physical activity. Suddenly, Obore felt naked without his rifle.

"You get to go in?!" she yelled. "After I've waited here for-"

"Three hours, I know," Obore murmured.

"Four!"

"Yeah, well, I work here," he said. He looked at Kostas, the security guard gazing on him with a look that said "please don't leave me with the crazy lady."

"Now if you'll excuse me…"

Obore entered the umbilical that led to the bridge. He heard a 'thunk' outside. For a moment, he thought of Kostas. The next, he thought of Jayne. And the desire to get the meeting over with so he could return home and sleep.

He shivered as he kept walking, rubbing his hands over his jacket. The umbilical always seemed to be cold – it was as if the Council wanted visitors to be uncomfortable before they entered their presence. If so, he didn't know why – they could be intimidating enough without the drop in temperature.

"Sergeant Daniels."

And so could Ramón, the desk jockey just outside the inner entrance to the bridge. If Kostas was the friendly face of the Council, Ramón was the one there to dissuade all but those with the most legitimate of grievances. That was what happened when you lost an eye to a brachua and got re-assigned from fieldwork due to lack of depth perception.

"Business?"

"Council's expecting me," Obore said.

"Hand scan then."

Obsore sighed. "Can't we-"

The security guard handed him a portable scanner, the look on his face making it clear he wasn't in the mood for argument. Feeling like he was back at the gatehouse, Obore obliged. Far quicker to comply then stir up any more fuss.

"Looks like you're right," Ramón said, looking at the scanner. "Step inside please."

The security guard pressed a button and the door to the bridge hissed open. He went back to the terminal he was sitting at. Staring at the screen with his single eye.

_Freak._

Obore mentally kicked himself. No. Not a freak. He was a clone. Everyone was a clone. "Freak" didn't mean anything anymore.

_And does that bother you? _the back of his mind asked.

He didn't know. By all rights, it shouldn't. There hadn't been a single born human for three-hundred years. Cloning had made the human race immortal. Had allowed them to escape Terra for Rhyldan.

_And yet…_

And yet nothing. Because he was in front of the Council now. The three of them at their curved desk, the bridge window to their backs. Facing north, the last light of the sun illuminating the sky behind them. And letting their shadows fall down on their desk.

"Sergeant Daniels," Obore said, saluting. "Reporting as ordered."

"Drop the hand Daniels," Councillor Kjell murmured, not looking up from his desk terminal. "We've seen it a thousand times."

Obore did so.

"Now then, let's get this over with," Kjell continued, looking up from his screen and folding it down into the desk. "It's late, I want to go home, _you _want to go home…"

"Actually-"

"But some of us…" Kjell said, glancing at the man to his left, "can't wait."

"Lesoo attacked," the other man responded. "I want this sorted out now."

Obore sighed. Kjell had been right – he _had _saluted a thousand times. And he'd seen this display more times than he could remember.

The Council had been larger once, he recalled. Once it had been more willing to accommodate the needs of the people. But those needs grew, and the Council shrank. Each of the Council members had been a CO on the _Northern Star_, but each of them had undergone gene therapy to supposedly increase their intellectual capacity – greater intelligence, less need for sleep, etc. In position entirely for the purpose of ruling, and doing the job more efficiently than a normal human. Reduced to the minimum of three to prevent voting deadlock. Efficient, certainly. Yet lacking something, Obore thought. Humanity. Life.

"Sergeant Daniels," began Spencer Mierul, the man to Kjell's right and the one he had talked to earlier. "At oh-nine-hundred, you and Charlie Squad embarked on standard patrol."

"Yes."

"At fifteen-eighteen, you were engaged with lesoo."

"I don't know the exact time but-"

"This engagement resulted in the death of Corporal Jayne Chelsea."

"You got her judair data, you tell me."

"You're telling _us_, sergeant."

"What Spencer means to say," began Uku Kaihanga, the woman to Kjell's left and the one who hadn't spoken until now, "is that we're very sorry about Jayne." She looked over at Spencer. "Aren't we?"

Spencer snorted. Kjell sighed. Obore couldn't blame him.

"Sergeant, Corporal Chelsea is dead," Kjell said. "I need your account of things. Just for formality's sake."

Obore sighed. "She was by herself. Lesoo attacked. By the time Long and I arrived we-"

"Why was she on her own?" Spencer interrupted.

"Standard procedure, one-hundred metre spread over assigned search area," Obore answered. He glared at Spencer. "Used to be smaller in the past y'know. And involved more men." He looked at Kaihanga. "And women."

"Indeed," Kaihanga began. "Maybe we need to clone more-"

"The hell we don't," Spencer shot back. "If the troopers are too incompetent to patrol without getting themselves too, we need to focus on quality, not quantity."

Obore started walking forward. Kjell held up his hand.

"Sergeant Daniels, before you do anything rash, keep in mind that we own you. We've cloned you twice in the last ten years. Do you want that to happen a third time?"

Obore snorted. "The hell that means to you?"

"More importantly, what does Jayne mean to you?"

Obore stared at her.

"What Kjell means," said Kaihanga, glancing at her colleagues, "is that we need to decide whether Corporal Chelsea gets put on the List, and if so, how high. Your word may go a long way-"

Spencer snorted.

"Well, some of the way, to deciding that."

Obore shifted in place. His feet were killing him. His hands were sweating despite the cold. He opened his mouth, but couldn't answer.

"Sergeant Daniels?"

_How? _He wondered. _How do I answer that?_

"Sergeant?"

_Jayne…okay I guess. Nice girl. Not the best soldier in the world but-_

"Fine," said Spencer. "She's not on the List."

"What?" Obore exclaimed. "But I-"

"All in favour of suspending re-animation of Jayne Chelsea?"

Kjell raised his hand. Slowly, Kaihanga did too.

"Good," said Spencer. He started getting to his feet. "Meeting adjourned."

The Council members started to get up. Obore stood still. Still staring. Still unable to form words.

"You're dismissed sergeant," said Kjell. "We'll re-assign another trooper to your unit at the earliest possible time. Until then-"

"Why not Jayne?" he whispered. "Why-"

"Because cloning takes time, takes resources, and you've given us no reason as to why we should give her priority."

"I…she….she was killed!" Obore exclaimed.

"So were you," Spencer said. "Many times."

"But I…I was…"

"A better soldier, one with the rank of sergeant now," said Kaihanga, walking over and putting a hand on Obore's shoulder. "Above even Private Long now, eh?"

"But Jayne was-"

"Killed, as has been established," Spencer murmured, picking up a data pad from beside the in-built desk terminal he operated from. "We need more than troopers, Daniels. More scientists. Better weapons. Bringing back Corporal Chelsea on a whim is in no-one's interests."

_Except those who cared about her you stuck up piece of-_

"Next meeting," Kjell murmured towards his colleague. "We're overtime enough as it is." She glanced at Obore. "Goodnight, Sergeant."

Spencer was already at the umbilical. Kjell followed. Kaihanga gave him a sad smile, then followed. And Obore was left alone. Standing still. In the shadows.

It was only a few seconds before he rubbed his eyes, and made a mental note to stop off at _Bolton's Bar_ on the way home.

But as images of Jayne's body filled his mind, as the councillors' words ran through his head, it felt like a lot longer.


	3. Family

_As a clone, you basically have infinite life. When you have infinite life, the concept of an afterlife becomes more of an afterthought or point of philosophical discussion rather than something at the forefront of your belief system. Not that this encourages such debate. There were quite a few in the first generation of space travellers that refused to be cloned, lest they be denied entrance into an afterlife. Suffice to say, they're no longer with us._

_Currently, the only real religion on Plymouth is the idea of "the Dark," a holdover from centuries of space travel. The idea that the universe is conscious, yet unseen, as is the case with dark matter. However, no collective religious body exists in Plymouth, and while references may be made to old Terran religions in everyday conversation (e.g. "oh my God"), this does not convey in of itself a personal belief on the utterer's part._

_I suppose we're not so different from Earthers in that regard then._

A Lecture on the Cultural Development of Mankind over the Last Three Centuries (excerpt)

* * *

**The Repopulation: The Price of Freedom**

**Chapter 3: Family**

"Y'know, it was once said the price of freedom is eternal vigilance."

"Yeah? Well whoever said that was an idiot."

Long murmured something over his dodom. Obore took another swill of his, the green, alcoholic fluid pouring down his throat, and onto his duster and the bar table. Back on Terra, there was a drink called beer. He remembered consuming it. But centuries of cloning and memory transfer had taken its toll, and he couldn't remember the taste. Only the act of sampling the liquid. And over three lives-worth of drinking at _Bolton's Bar _hadn't generated anything remotely close to what he believed beer actually tasted like.

"I mean, eh, think 'bout it," Long said, gazing at Obore through bleary eyes. "We're…free, ya know? On Rhyl…daine…"

"Freedom," Obore slurred. "I mean, lesoo…crap. Food…crap. Council's crap. This…" He slammed down his glass, "drink crap!" He looked up at Bolton who'd glanced his way from behind the counter. "Nah offense."

"None taken. You smell like crap anyway."

Long made a noise that sounded like a cross between a snort, a hiccup, and the mating call of a nacoot. Obore just finished his dodom and slammed the empty glass down.

"'nother round."

Bolton obliged. Three lives of drinking here was enough to convey that no matter which version of Obore Daniels was getting drunk, he'd never accept the argument of "you've had enough."

Only in one of those lives had he ended up in the drunk tank.

Another glass of dodom appeared before him. Obore looked down at it. A week had passed since his meeting with the Council. A week of nothing – no word on a third member for their squad, no word of when, or _if _Jayne might be put on the List, no hazard pay to supplement his weekly wage. So all he'd been allowed to do was do what he did best while in Plymouth – eat, drink, gamble, sleep, and drink. And unlike his predecessor, this version of Dinh Long was willing to take part in it.

**Thunk.**

Obore glanced at Long's unconscious body on the floor, dodom running over his clothes. Watched as a pair of bouncers walked over and dragged his unconscious body away to the drunk tank. Obore looked at Bolton.

"It bother ya?" he asked, wondering why the barkeep was looking so blurry. "Ya make more mummy off 'im through the tank charge rather than…hic…ta…tanking…his glass?"

"It bother you?" Bolton asked.

"Nah!" Obore yelled, taking another swig of the dodom. "I'm…God, ya knew?"

"No, you're not God. Or dark matter for that matter." Bolton leant over. "What's eating you Obore?"

Obore took another swig of the dodom. Already the glass was empty, becoming glass number something, beating his former record of something.

"You miss Jayne, that it?"

Obore thumped down a fist. "'nother round."

"Obore, I don't-"

The trooper grabbed the bartender by his collar. "You nud seed knew tu ma till know. Yee wunna stat her?"

"What?"

"I said…giv…reed…"

"Round?"

"T…two."

Bolton obliged. Obore picked up both of the glasses and started walking.

"Hey, you haven't paid."

"Put…tab…"

"You don't have a tab."

"I don new!"

Obore kept stumbling. Kept hiccupping. Kept wondering why his bladder felt like it was the size of a peanut.

He made it out okay though. Only one of the glasses fell on the floor by the end of it.

* * *

Obore kept stumbling. The lights kept waving their beams at him in an effort to confound him. He kept feeling for his dodom glasses. They were here. Somewhere. Maybe in one of his pockets.

_Fuck 'em._

Plymouth didn't have much in the way of light pollution. Partly due to size, partly due to lack of need – most people walked within its walls, most of its vehicles were reserved for outside reconnaissance, hunting, or when the time came to clear out some lesoo that had decided to not accept that humans had more guns, and were better at using them.

_Fucking stars._

Somewhere, there was Terra and its star. Out there, in the black…long gone…

_Like Jayne._

Obore stumbled. Jayne was gone. Gone gone gone. Least she was until she was cloned. Whenever that was. It…

He tripped. His face hit the dirt. He let out a cruse into the night. Rolled over and began to laugh.

_Not always like…this._

Once, it had been different. He knew that much. He-

"You alright?"

Someone was talking to him. He looked up at the figure. He looked at the hand the figure had provided for him.

"Here, let me help you."

Obore took it. He stumbled to his feet. He swayed.

"Um, you okay?" the fuzzy asked him.

"Oh…err, fine," said Obore, stumbling around. "I…er…give me a sec."

"Huh?"

It was at that point that Obore Daniels's stomach decided it had had enough and decided to disgorge some of its contents. Which normally wouldn't have been a problem.

Unfortunately, those contents landed on the figure in front of him.

* * *

Rhyldan's sun was bright the following day.

Obore squinted as he peered out through the drunk tank's doorway, the door itself having just been opened. It felt like there was a jackhammer in his head, sandpaper down his throat, and that he was lying in his own vomit.

"You awake?" a voice asked.

_Shit, _he thought. He _was _lying in his own vomit.

"Mister Daniels?"

There was a figure in the doorway. The one who was talking to him, as if calling across the void of space. Obore stumbled to his feet – more to get out of the vomit than anything else.

"Good, you are awake" the figure said. He felt a plastic flask be shoved into his hand. "Drink this."

He obeyed the order. Decades ago he'd done the same thing the last time he was in here. The aluminium walls were rusted, the water tasted a bit better, the shadowy figure wasn't Officer Luis Frenso, but otherwise, the procedure was the same.

"That'll be two-hundred credits," the shadow said. "Pay on the way out."

"What?" Obore said. "But I-"

"Twenty credits for unpaid dodom beverages and stolen glasses. Forty credits for service fee. Twenty credits for accommodation fee. Ten credits for cleaning fee."

Obore glanced at the vomit. _Ugh._

"And one-hundred and ten credits for assault."

"What?"

"Assault," the shadow replied, taking the water. "Person who brought you in? Claims you assaulted her."

"But I-"

"Was drunk," the shadow replied. "Who knows what you did?"

Obore took another swig of water. Two-hundred credits. That was half his week's standard pay. He grasped the flask tighter as the shadow started to come into focus – some no-name Civil Protection officer that wasn't Luis Frenso.

"Bet you're loving this," Obore murmured. "Me, stuck in Plymouth. Down with other CPs like your sorry arse and-"

The man took the water away. He handed him a scanner. "Credit chip please."

Obore coughed. _Two-hundred fucking credits. _

"You gonna make this tough?"

Assault. Jayne dead. Long brought down to his level.

"Mister Daniels?"

"Fine," Obore sighed. "But on the condition that I get another water bottle."

* * *

Coffee. Grown from the coffee bean. Grown from the evergreen shrub of the genus _Coffera_. Imported to Rhyldan on the _Northern Star_. Grown in the agricultural areas outside the walls of Plymouth. And right now, entering Obore's mouth.

_Holy Dark, I needed that._

Obore had heard it debated whether coffee actually rehydrated you or not. But he'd finished the second water bottle the git back at the drunk tank had given him, now he needed something to wake him up. And so far, it was working.

Obore leant back in his chair, feeling the fabric of his duster against the back of his neck as he closed his eyes. A trip to the dry cleaners had sorted out the vomit's stains, and more importantly, smell. The sun was at noon, the Coffee House (as it was simply called) was filling up, and along the dust streets, people moved. For a moment, he could forget the Council. For a moment, he could forget the problems of the replacement for Jayne. For a moment, he could forget her dying at the hands of the lesoo.

But only for a moment. Because then, he could see her dying. Then, he could see Long pulling the trigger, of the head of the Long before him disappearing into a setlang's jaws. He could see the other times he died. Once through a lesoo bullet in the chest, leaving him to bleed out. Another through an axe to the back of the head, narrowly missing his judair. Of every time before that, on the _Northern Star_. Of old age. Of disease. Every. Single. Time.

"Huh. It's you."

And his eyes sprang open, as if expecting to see the Reaper himself. Or herself. Some believed Death was a woman. Some believed in old Terran religions, some believed in the Dark and the notion that human souls joined the fabric of the universe before being returned to a new physical shell. The notion that a soul existed and had to go somewhere after the body's death.

"Glad to see you're up," said the voice sarcastically.

And right now, Obore wasn't sure what he believed. Bar that the person standing in front of him, the dark-skinned, muscular woman, meant trouble.

"I know you," he murmured, before mentally kicking herself. _Don't establish a connection idiot!_

"Yeah, I bet you do," she answered.

"I saw you," he continued, his tongue outpacing his mind as he continued babbling. "A week ago…outside the Council chambers…you were-"

"Pissed?" she asked. "Yeah. I was. And no thanks to you, I've got this to show for our little meeting last night."

She sat down on the seat opposite Obore's, resting her arms on the small circular table. Obore opened a mouth to protest but stopped short when one of those arms brushed some hair from her face. Revealing her right eye. Her _blackened _eye.

"Oh," Obore said.

"Used a plasti-pack," the woman said. "Still hurts."

Obore went back to his coffee. "You want some more blood from me, forget it. I paid the fine."

"For assault, yes. The vomit on my clothes however-"

Obore thumped down a hand. He met her gaze. "I don't care," he said.

He closed his eyes and went back to his coffee, hoping that when he opened them, she'd be gone. He had no problems talking to women – he quite liked talking to women, especially when they'd let him make eye contact with other areas of their body. What he _didn't _like was women who had a problem with him. Or men for that matter. But-

_Screw it._

He opened his eyes. She was still there.

_Bugger._

The woman was smiling faintly. "What do you care about?" she asked.

"Stuff," Obore grunted, taking another sip of the coffee. It was getting dangerously low he noticed – if he ran out he'd have one less weapon in his arsenal to dissuade conversation.

"Right," the woman said. "So you don't care about Jayne then."

Obore slammed the coffee down on the table, its black liquid spilling over the tablecloth. "The hell you on about?" he hissed.

"Oh Jayne, oh Jayne, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the woman mocked in a high pitched voice. "Seriously, you were like a crying child."

Obore slammed down both his hands and got to his feet. He could feel people's eyes on him. Just as surely as he could feel the urge to repeat the events of last night as far as physical assault went. And show everyone what "assault" actually entailed.

"Still," the woman said, still seated, "it's not as if you see any children around here."

Obore raised an eyebrow. That…it was the first…not "intelligent" thing she'd said per se, but…it was enough to get him to sit down. To look at his empty coffee cup, and put it to the side of the table.

"What about children?" he murmured.

The woman didn't answer. She just sat there. Playing with the table cloth, running its fabric between her fingers.

"Alright," Obore said. "Let's get to it – why are you here?"

The woman remained silent.

"Okay, let's go back a bit," he said. "Why were you at the Council house a week ago? What's your name?"

"Emily," she said. "Emily Salazar."

She extended a hand across the table. After a moment's hesitation, Obore took it.

"Obore," he said. "Obore Daniels."

The woman broke free of the handhold. "To answer your other question, I was there for two reasons. One of them was about the town greenhouses."

"You work at the greenhouses?"

"Yes," she said. "And the other…" She trailed off, fiddling with the fabric again. She-

_No._

It wasn't just the fabric, Obore realized. It was what was under it. Something he hadn't seen until now, that he'd somehow missed completely. A golden band, on her left ring finger. Something that wasn't seen much in New Plymouth in Obore's experience, but could still be found. A wedding ring.

_Huh. So where's the husband?_

"The other thing was about my husband," she said suddenly.

_Oh. _Obore cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. Is he…"

He trailed off. He'd not seen the look on her face before. But he knew it. Knew it because he'd felt it. About Jayne. Only…only he suspected that Emily Salazar had far more of an excuse to be sad. Had actual reason to be pissed about being denied access to the Council. Had reason…whatever it was…to be seeing him now.

Obore gestured to a waitress. "Can I see the menu again?" he asked.

* * *

Obore couldn't remember the last time he'd visited the greenhouses. Which meant that either his memory was being a twitchy bugger, or that he'd genuinely never been to the structures. And if that was the case, then it meant that Emily was showing him the buildings for the first time.

"Huh," he said.

"Huh?" Emily asked, glancing at him. "Huh what?"

"No, that's all. Huh."

"Huh. Alright then."

Obore took a swig of water from the bottle he'd got from the drunk tank. The coffee was long gone. But he'd given it a refill back at the Coffee House, and water lasted longer. Long enough so that as they'd made their way from one sector to another of Plymouth, he still had the liquid on hand. He took another swig.

_Needed that._

Which, he noticed, the crops didn't. They were everywhere, and not just filling up the interior of the greenhouses. Carrots, sorkelos, cabbages, tagatas, basically every fruit and vegetable native to Earth and Rhyldan.

"Why's this here?" he asked as the pair walked through.

"Pardon?" Emily asked.

"I mean, all this space devoted to crop growing," Obore said, picking an apple off a tree, ignoring the withering gaze of the groundskeeper nearby. "There's agricultural fields outside Plymouth. Why have greenhouses within the town?"

"Well you're a soldier, you tell me."

Obore took a bite of the apple. "I don't follow," he said, between mouthfuls.

"Lesoo," Emily answered, taking a tagata and taking a bite, its purple juice running down her chin as the groundskeeper stormed away, muttering about freeloaders. "Council order – in the event of losing outer territory, such as in a siege, it's required that the city be able to sustain itself from within its walls."

"And this can do that?" Obore asked, gesturing around. "Is it enough to sustain a town by itself.

Emily shrugged. "Maybe. Hopefully we won't find out."

"No,"Obore said before taking another bite of the apple. "I suppose not."

The pair kept walking, finishing off their fruits of choice. Emily entered one of the greenhouses, and immediately, Obore took off his leather duster and took another swig of water. It was hot, humid, and already he could feel sweat trickling down his forehead and seeping into his t-shirt.

"And this is where I work," Emily said.

She was sweating too, Obore noticed.

"Where…Michael…used to work with me."

Obore remained silent. Emily had mentioned her husband back at the café, but had otherwise remained silent as he'd had his second coffee, and she her first. Afterwards, she'd invited him to the greenhouse. He'd taken up her offer – partly because he had nothing better to do. But mostly because he could tell that she wanted to discuss something, and for whatever reason, wasn't comfortable doing it back at the Coffee House.

"Michael was…um…" Emily brushed something from her eye, but Obore couldn't tell if it was above or below. She turned around, running her hands through the foliage around her. "He was a botanist, actually. I was his assistant on Earth." She sighed, glancing back at him. "You remember much about home?"

Obore shrugged. "Bits and pieces."

"Must have been important, for you to get on the Northern Star."

"Yeah, well, I'm a soldier now. I'm good at killing." He thought of Jayne. "As in, lesoo."

_You didn't kill her. Dinh did._

Emily nodded. "Fair enough. The judair isn't perfect, no matter what the techies say. Even eidetic memory only lasts a single lifetime."

Obore didn't know what "eidetic" meant. But he let her keep talking.

"Michael he…well…" She sighed again, putting her hands in her pockets. "It was a u'fow, actually. They come to the gardens every so often, trying to get the food we grow. And…" She let out a gasp. "One bit him. We…" She took a breath. "Couldn't help him in time."

Obore remained silent. U'fows. They bore resemblance to the snakes of Earth, but were actually mammals. And even more poisonous than their reptilian counterparts. He watched as Emily brushed her hand through the foliage. If this Michael had been bitten, then he'd have had little chance of surviving, he reflected. Though at least, he supposed, the death would have been quick.

_Not like Jayne's._

He shook the thought away. Jayne. She kept coming back to him. And Emily…well, it was a woman thing, he told himself. Females of the species, biological imperatives, even if humans were all clones nowadays, the sex drive had never been removed, nor had anyone ever sought to remove it to his knowledge.

Emily was still silent though, so he spoke up. "Listen, Miss…I mean, Mrs Salazar…I'm sorry about your husband. But why are you telling me this?" He took another sip of water. "Why am I here? Why…" He trailed off as she turned back to look at him. "Why hasn't he been cloned?"

"I was at the Council house to find out."

"Yeah, I…yeah, I recall," Obore said, glancing back at the greenhouse door, shut behind him. "But look, I hate the Council as much as you do. But I can't help you."

"Actually, you might be able to," Emily said.

The door opened. And two other people walked in. Neither of them gardeners. Neither of them smiling.

"Emily?" he asked, reaching for a pistol that he realized wasn't there, and hadn't been for days. "What is this?"

"A meeting," she said, and he saw that she was actually smiling. "One of many actually."

"The hell?"

One of the two men held out a hand. "Ayers Murphy," he said. "Electrician."

Obore gingerly took it, while looking at the other guy. "And you?" he asked.

He didn't answer.

"Hello?"

"Boggs is deaf," Murphy answered. "Viral infection. It could be cured in another clone, but…well, none of us are keen to be put on the List.

Boggs, if that really was his name, smiled faintly. Obore didn't return it. The man was a walking giant. Regardless, Obore freed his palm from the handshake. Murphy's hands was soft, calloused, in stark contrast to his hard, weathered own. Boggs was wandering around, looking at the plants. Emily was just standing there.

"Great," he said. "So why are we here? Why am _I _here?"

She opened her mouth.

"And tell me why I should stay."

"Alright," Emily said. "I'll tell you. But what do you want answered first?"

Obore remained silent. What he _wanted _to do was leave. There was nothing threatening about Emily and her gang (besides Boggs, and even he was literally smelling the flowers), but there was something…off, about it, he knew. And as a person who'd faced his problems face-to-face as long as he'd been on Rhyldan, secrets were something he detested. And thankfully, rarely had to face.

"We're here because we all lost someone," Emily said. "Murphy lost his brother. Lightning strike." She gestured to Boggs. "Boggs lost his sister. Hornterra fever, few years back. And I…" She smiled bitterly. "Well, I lost a husband."

"And me?"

"Jayne," she said. "You lost Jayne."

Obore started moving towards the door. "I don't have time for-"

He stopped. Boggs was standing before him, and his right hand was on Obore's shoulder. He was squeezing. And it _hurt_.

"Like I said, we all lost someone," said Emily. "And the Council, for whatever reason, hasn't re-cloned them."

"So?" Obore asked, getting his shoulder free from the giant and rubbing it. "The List is long."

"Yeah, it is," Emily answered. "But why is that? Why is the List getting longer? Why is the Council so slow to bring back friends and family?"

"Um…resources?"

"Please," Emily sneered. "Murphy, tell him."

"My brother died because he was working on a transmissions array in a lightning storm. It was understaffed, yet he worked alone. And died. If the Council had provided him with a team, the job could have been done faster." He clenched his fists. "He might still be alive."

"Boggs's sister," Emily said. "Dead because the Council was so slow in developing a vaccination program. If she was alive today, she might be able to remind people how nasty it is to bleed out of your eyes before your innards rot away."

Obore raised an eyebrow. Up until now, Emily had been sad, regretful, snide…but now, her looks, her voice…they were positively venomous.

"And Michael's dead," she murmured. "Course the Council can't be blamed for that. But I _can _blame them for not bringing him back. And quite frankly, I'm beginning to suspect they intend not to. Ever."

"And why wouldn't they?" Obore murmured, taking another sip of water.

"Because…" Emily sighed, again brushing her hand through some leaves. "He…I…we wanted children."

Obore spat the water out. "Children?!"

"Is that so strange?"

"Strange? Emily, there hasn't been any children for over a century!"

"Three, actually," Murphy commented. "Not since we left Earth. Genetic engineering. All infertile."

"Exactly!" Obore exclaimed. "Why…why would you-"

"Why not?" Emily asked. "The human infertility in each clone is easily solved through gene therapy. The possibility of reversal was made for on the _Northern Star_, in case something went wrong with the cloning tech."

"Because…because…"

Obore trailed off. He had no desire for children. He couldn't recall ever having a desire for it. But as he thought about it…

"Obore, we're clones," Emily said. "The Council has always said children would bog down the community. It takes a village to raise a child, this planet seems intent on killing us half the time, and on the Northern Star, well, hardly a place to raise a baby." She threw up her hands. "But times have changed! They have to change!"

"Do they?" Obore asked. "Like you said, this planet hates us. Least the lesoo do. You really want to bring a child into all that?"

"Yes," she said. "And Michael did too. And I believe that I have a right to make that decision myself. Just as I have a right to get my husband back. Like Murphy and Boggs have a right to get their family members back. Like you have a right to get Jayne back."

Obore remained silent. Rights…that was a charged word. And rarely used.

"There are others," Emily said. "People who want family members back. Who want the Council to actually counsel, not just make arbitrary decisions for all of us. We…" She sighed. "We want _change_, Obore. We want your help."

He blinked. Emily didn't. Nor did Murphy or Boggs for that matter.

"Me," he asked. "You want _me_?"

"Why not?" Emily asked. "You're a sergeant. A leader already. You have access to the Council. And you have as much reason to petition for change as any of us."

Obore sighed. He took a sip at his water bottle, only to realize that it was empty.

_Shit._

The sergeant started walking through the greenhouse, biding his time, choosing his words. Wants. Needs. Two separate things. New Plymouth _needed_ people. Workers. Botanists, techies, soldiers. What it didn't need was children, or family members arbitrarily restored. He didn't _need _Jayne back. But…

"Obore?" Emily asked.

But he _wanted _her. He hadn't realized that until now. Just…just a chance to talk to her again. It didn't have to go beyond that. She…she was dead, he told himself. Not necessarily because of him. Not even necessarily because of the Council, even if they _were _spread out his squad too thin. But she was dead, they could change that. Surely after everything she'd done, they had an obligation to.

"Listen," Emily said, putting her hands in her pockets. "You want out, I understand. But, I mean…we're not talking anything drastic, alright? Just petitions. Maybe protests. Grassroots activism."

"You're telling me this," Obore said, turning back to her. "This stuff. Material I would usually bring to the Council."

Murphy took a step towards him. Emily held out a hand. "Your job is to fight lesoo though, isn't it?" she asked. "Wouldn't it be better to have Jayne with you?"

"Fuck you," he snarled.

"Nice," Murphy said. "But you in, or out?"

Obore looked at Murphy. At Boggs. At Emily. A team of three. Just like the team he, Jayne, and Long had had. The team that was broken. Like all these people were as far as familial bonds went. Bonds that the Council could fix, resources be damned.

"Obore?" Emily asked. "You can think about it if you want, but-"

"I'm in," he interrupted. "The Dark help me, I'm in." He held out a hand. "I serve New Plymouth. The Council's meant to. It's…well, my job."

Emily smiled and took it. So did Murphy and Boggs for that matter, least as far as the smiling thing went. Given how large Boggs's hands were, Obore wasn't complaining.

To the Council though…right now, among these people…complaining was something he was _very _ready to do.

For himself. For Jayne.

And everyone else.


	4. Liberty

_Patrol: Three man units, assigned to area outside Plymouth._

_Civil Protection: State police service, assigned to everyday disputes. Two man units unless situation dictates otherwise._

_Security: Assigned to government infrastructure. No cohesive unit._

Plymouth Security Operations Manual (excerpt)

* * *

**The Repopulation: The Price of Freedom**

**Chapter 4: Liberty**

"Jayne Chelsea. Michael Salazar. Paul Murphy. These are but three names of the fallen. Of the forgotten. Of friends and family that have been denied a second chance at life by the Council!"

The crowd roared.

"We work. We bleed. We suffer. Some of us have even died. And what does the Council give us?!"

"Nothing!" the crowd yelled.

"Will we do nothing?!"

"No!"

"That's right! And that's why, from this day, for as many days as we take, we won't do nothing! We won't stand by! Why we will fight, and fight, and fight, until we get our loved ones back! When we can have children! When we can seize our own destiny!"

The crowd cheered.

"Life! Family! Liberty! These are our principles! And we will never waver! For Plymouth! For Rhyldan!"

The crowd had reached fever pitch. And sweating like a big, passing the amplifier to Emily, Obore felt the same way. Strong. Committed. _Possessed_.

And as much as he hated to admit it, enjoying himself.

Emily began to speak, and like the good flock they were, the crowd cheered her on. A month ago, Obore had thought that maybe, at best, their movement would have got a few dozen. Not a crowd of a thousand, which was a full third of Plymouth's population.

"Did we not come to Rhyldan for a new start, a new life?!" he heard Emily shout over the amplifier. "Are we not entitled to live our lives as we please?!"

The crowd loudly affirmed the notion. They wanted friends and family back. They wanted the Council to be more reactive to issues. And many of them, more than Obore had ever imagined, had expressed the desire for the return of reproductive rights and the fruits those rights would bring. So many. And yet only now had they began to voice their frustrations.

"My husband, if he was here…"

Obore drowned out her voice. The husband card, as Murphy had called it. It always worked. He didn't doubt that Emily was sincere, but…

Shaking his head, he stepped down from the makeshift podium, a platform fifty metres from the council building. It always felt more genuine when Emily, himself, or anyone else for that matter spoke about the general issues of their movement. Bringing up individuals just felt…manipulative.

_And maybe it is. You want Jayne back. Do you even care about anything else?_

Obore told himself that he did. The Council had allowed these protests to occur, but now, Obore suspected they were regretting that concession. Civil Protection and patrol grunts like himself were stationed between the crowd and a building, forming a buffer between the protesters and the object of their frustrations. So far, there had been no trouble.

_So far._

But that was changing. At the back of the crowd, he could see movement. People not looking at Emily, but rather at the guards. Shoving them. And the guards were shoving back.

"Hey!" Obore yelled, making his way through the crowd. "Hey!"

No-one listened. Everyone was listening to Emily, or in the case of the six or seven protesters scuffling with the guards, intent on continuing that scuffle. A scuffle that saw one of them be pushed to the ground. A scuffle that saw the protesters begin to throw punches at the guards.

"Stop it!" Obore yelled.

The CPs and protesters liked at Obore. All of them confused.

"Enough," he said. "This is a peaceful demonstration."

"Peaceful my arse," one of the CPs murmured.

"And your arse will be one the line if anyone's harmed," Obore said. He held a hand to the protester, a man about his age. "You alright?"

The man didn't say anything, nor did he extend a hand to take Obore's olive branch. He got up on his own. And spat at the guards.

"Fucking arseholes," he said. "Been working in the fields for a century! Day in, day out! When can I do something fucking different?!"

"Well, maybe if you went back to work you could, gramps."

The man tried to throw a punch. Obore grabbed it.

"Mister Daniels-"

"Enough," he said. "Besides, it's Murphy's turn to speak."

Emily had finished, and Murphy was up next. Scowling, the protesters turned around. Leaving Obore to face the guards alone.

He couldn't remember there being so many CPs in Plymouth. It was a mystery why he and his fellow patrol members had to work in such an isolated manner if the Council had such manpower at its beck and call.

"You guys are welcome to join in you know," he said to the officers.

"Piss off," said one of them, the same one who'd called the protester "gramps."

"Just saying."

"You hear me you cunt?" the CP asked, drawing out a shock stick. "I said piss off before I-"

"That's enough."

A figure stepped through the crowd. One clad in the browns of patrol units rather than the greys of the CPs. A figure Obore recognised.

"Dinh?" he asked. "Private Long?"

"Corporal now, actually," Dinh answered. He came face to face with Obore. An uneasy silence lingered between them. Deafening even Murphy and the crowd's cheers.

"So…" Dinh said eventually. "Should I call you Sir? Or Sergeant?"

"Obore would be fine, actually."

"Right," Dinh said, glancing at the CPs, all of them standing there like dogs at the edge of the chain. "Listen, if we could talk?"

Obore laughed. Right now, it was therapeutic.

"Right," he sneered. "Come with you. Among your buddies." He gestured to the CP that had drawn out his shock stick. "You guys want boxing practice or something?"

"Obore, I'm serious," Dinh said. "I mean…" He sighed. "Look, can we…talk, okay?" "If not here, just…elsewhere."

Obore glared at him.

"Fine," he said. He unhooked his belt, its contents including a pistol, handcuffs, and a couple of spare clips. He handed them to one of the CPs whose expression Obore couldn't see due to the grunt's visor. "Satisfied?"

Obore glanced at the CPs. They just stared at him. Slowly, he turned back to Long.

"Alright," he said. "Let's talk."

* * *

The two men walked down Kjell Street. Named after Captain Kjell of the _Northern Star_, it was one of the first streets laid out for Plymouth. A street Kjell had been there to see be built while he was still a captain, not a councillor and the man he was now. It led directly by the council building, cutting a line from Plymouth's eastern gate to its western one. It was the main route by which the township's citizens travelled.

And right now, almost completely deserted.

Obore and Dinh walked in silence, the only sounds being their boots on the dirt ground. Here and there, Obore could see someone. Shopping, dining…it was midday, there were a few people in cafes. But it was as if the entire township either wanted to be at the protest, or distance themselves from it.

**Freedom! Liberty! Rhyldan!**

He kept walking as the voice boomed out through the air. So did Dinh. But Dinh himself, as he turned to look at Obore, looked like he had something to say.

"Quite loud, isn't it?" Dinh said eventually.

Obore grunted.

"I mean, a whole one-thousand. That's…what, half of Plymouth's population?"

"Third," Obore murmured.

"Right." Dinh looked a bit relieved. "Well…still a lot of people. I mean-"

"Dinh," Obore said, coming to a stop and facing his fellow soldier. "What is it?"

"What's what?"

"This. You said you had something to tell me. So tell me it."

Dinh sighed.

"Come on," Obore said. "Either spit it out, or let me get back to the protest."

Dinh stopped walking. So did Obore. The latter waited for the former to speak. And eventually, the former obliged.

"Obore…" he said. "Is Jayne worth that much to you?"

"What?"

"Jayne," Dinh repeated. "She dies, you get pissed."

"Weren't you? Oh, that's right, you're the one who shot her."

"You get drunk. You meet with Emily Saladzar."

"Salazar."

"And now, a month later, you think you're the champion of the people." Dinh kicked the dirt, the particles swirling around in the breeze. "The knight in shining armour who's going to get her back."

"No, I'm going to make the Council get her back," Obore said firmly, watching the dust particles disperse. "And everyone else we want to get back. And allow children. And-"

"And that's it?" Dinh asked. "Children? You're willing to drag Plymouth to the brink for _children_?"

"I'm willing to stand up to the Council," Obore said.

"You didn't answer my question," Dinh said.

"And I'm not obliged to. Right to remain silent and all that."

Dinh glared at him.

"Or did the Council remove that right to?"

Dinh averted his gaze. He began walking again before glancing back, as if to see if Obore was following. After a moment's hesitation, Obore obliged.

"Obore…" Dinh said eventually. "The Council asked me to speak to you."

Obore grunted. "Right. Course they did."

"They asked me to try and dissuade you," he said. "And if I couldn't, I was to report back to them."

"So they can make their next plan?"

"They're…Obore, I'm not supposed to tell you this but…considering the possibility of hearing your demands," Dinh said. "To see you in person."

Obore blinked. Back at the protest, he could hear more cheers. As if the protesters had heard what Dinh had said also.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really." Dinh looked down to the ground, moving a foot. He only looked up again when Obore let out a whoop.

"A month!" he exclaimed. "A mere month!" He pumped a fist in his hand. "Holy Dark Matter, those white collars must have less spine than I thought."

"Obore-"

"I…I've gotta tell Emily," Obore began. "And Murphy. And-"

"Obore!" Dinh hissed, grabbing him by the arm. "It's not that simple."

Obore stopped celebrating. And started raising an eyebrow. "Whadya mean, not simple?"

Dinh didn't answer.

"Council wants to talk. I'm willing to present our demands. What else is there?"

Dinh sighed.

"Come on, Corporal. Spit it out."

"Obore…" Dinh began. "There's…talk, alright?"

"What kind of talk?"

"Just…talk."

He tried to walk off. Obore grabbed his arm.

"Let go of me," Dinh said.

"You going on about talk?" Obore asked. "Then talk."

Dinh shook his arm loose. "You want talk?" he asked. "Fine. Let's talk."

Obore folded his arms.

"There's stuff going on at the cloning facility. There's been more activity than there's been in months, maybe years."

Obore snorted. "Right. They only get their arses into gear once it suits them."

"Obore, it's more than that. There's…rumours, okay? They're making mnemosynes. Doing…stuff, to them, alright? Weird stuff. Cybernetics, weapons, that kind of sci-fi crap. Stuff that'll make Civil Protection look like school prefects."

"There aren't any schools anymore," Obore said softly. "There hasn't been a need for them in centuries."

Dinh opened his mouth. Then closed it. Silence lingered between the two men.

"Dinh?" Obore eventually asked.

"Goodbye, Sergeant," the corporal said. "I'll see you around." And with that, he began to walk off.

"You could help, y'know," Obore called out after him. "Join the team. Fight the good fight."

"I serve Rhyldan," he called back. "That's what I do."

"Right. That's what Sergeant Dinh said before he died."

Dinh…the Dinh of this day and age, not the one Obore had once known, spun around.

"Sergeant?" he asked. "I was never a sergeant."

"No, you were," Obore said. "Sergeant Dinh Long. Head of Charlie Squad. My superior."

"Don't bullshit me Obore."

"Head bitten off by a setlang," Obore said. "Judair went with it. Council gave you backed-up memories before your last cloning, all government servants sworn to silence. Didn't want it interfering with the rank dynamic. And hey, Bolton was just as willing to provide drinks to the new you."

"Shut up!"

"Like the old you said, the Council hates useless people. Guess Sergeant Dinh Long was pretty useless since they busted you down to private."

"I said shut up!"

Dinh threw a punch. It hit Obore's lip, splitting it and sending him falling down into the dirt. Dinh stood above him, both fists primed like those of a boxer. Looking like the setlang that had killed the previous version of him. As if that version's vengeful spirit was inhabiting the body that dared take his name.

"That's the Council," Obore said, brushing the blood off his lip. "They send you out, let you die, spit you back out. That's what they did to Jayne, Dinh. It's what they've done to all of us. You. Me. Emily. Everyone."

Dinh stood there. He unclenched his fists. His eyes averted Obore's own.

"Tell the Council I'll see them," Obore said, getting to his feet. "In good faith."

"Faith…" Dinh laughed hollowly. "Gods, dark matter…you think there's anything to put faith into?"

"I've never seen any angels. I've never become part of the fabric of Creation. Far as I'm concerned, there's only this world and this universe." Obore put a hand on Dinh's shoulder, remembering when then-Sergeant Long had done the same to him. "That's why we need our loved ones back. Because we're not gonna be seeing them anywhere else."

"Maybe," Dinh said, removing Obore's hand. "But you're not going to see me."

"Pardon?"

"Goodbye, Sir," Dinh said. He began walking. Back towards the council building. Towards the crowd.

"Dinh!" Obore cried out.

"I said goodbye!"

And he kept walking. And Obore kept standing.

"I'm not a sir," he murmured eventually.

Yet he still stayed in place. Watching Dinh. Listening to the sound of the crowd. Reflecting that sooner or later, he'd have to get back to rally the troops.

Watching Dinh, he reflected that for some reason, it didn't seem as enjoyable now.


	5. Security

_Due to the continuing civil unrest, all patrol and security units are henceforth merged with Civil Protection. Report to CP Dispatch for further orders._

Council Edict 309/6

* * *

**The Repopulation: The Price of Freedom**

**Chapter 5: Security**

"Clear?"

"Clear."

"Good. Proceed."

Obore stepped forward into the council chamber. Behind him were two security guards, Kostas and Ramón. Both clad in body armour, both carrying automatic rifles, neither of them willing to speak to him, or even speak at all besides the whole "clear" thing. Beside him were four security guards, two on each side, both equipped the same way. And in front of him were the three council members. Aukstrom Kjell. Spencer Mierul. Uku Kaihanga. Eleven in total.

_Prime number._

Did that mean anything? Obore doubted it. And if he added himself, it came to twelve. Even. Easily divisible. Like Plymouth as a whole really.

"So, Mister Daniels…" Kjell began. "I'd like to start this meeting by saying that it was nice of you to come and see us."

And he stopped thinking about numbers. Mathematics were precise. Absolute. Humans and the words that came out of their mouth were anything but.

"I would also like to thank you for partaking in the strip search and body-scan without complaint," Kjell continued. "Please understand that we've had to boost security over the last two months."

And Kjell was a case in point, Obore knew. "Good faith." "Nice." To "come see us." Words designed to put him at ease before they started laying into him.

"Cut the pleasantries," Spencer murmured. "Let's get on with it."

Which, Obore realized, had come sooner than expected.

"Mister Daniels, I'll lay this out, even if my colleagues won't," Spencer said, leaning forward over the council table. "We've indulged you for two months. In that time, Plymouth's ground to a standstill. We estimate two thirds of the population are involved in your little tantrum."

"Well, if it makes you feel better it's more like only three fifths."

"Productivity has dropped by seventy percent," Spencer continued. "We've had to cut patrols outside the township, the cloning facility has been vandalized several times-"

"I didn't order that. Though I have heard some stories about what might be going on there."

"And now, finally, we're at breaking point," Spencer said, leaning back in his chair.

Obore blinked. _Breaking point? They're giving in?_

If they were, there was no sign of it bar Spencer's words. But Obore saw the look in their eyes. The way Marietta glanced at him. The way one of the guards fingered his rifle. How Kjell began to speak.

"Obore," he said. "This has to stop. I mean...well, think about it. You were a sergeant."

"Actually, I never received notification of any suspension of rank."

"No you didn't," Kjell said. "Technically, you still possess that rank. And we're willing to remove that technicality and go the extra mile, if you come around."

"More," Obore said softly. "Does that include Jayne?"

"No," said Spencer.

"No?" Obore whispered. "But…you said-"

"Daniels, you're a disgrace," Spencer said. "Pathetic. Your balls start talking, you get a thing for Corporal Chelsea, and now you've got half the town in uproar because you want to fuck your sack buddy."

"You son of a-"

Obore started walking forward. The clicks of rifles being locked, loaded, and pointed at him stopped him in his tracks. Glaring, he looked up at the Council. Spencer smirked back.

"See?" the man asked, looking at his colleagues. "Mister Daniels isn't a freedom fighter. He's just a kid throwing a tantrum because he can't get what he wants."

Kjell sighed. Kaihanga glanced at Obore.

"It's true, isn't it?" Kaihanga said sadly, as if Obore had disappointed him somehow. "Jayne. You want Jayne. We gave you valid reasons for not bringing her back. And then…well, you know what happened. _This _happened. Two months of it."

"Right," Obore said. "Jayne. It's all about Jayne."

Spencer smiled. Out of the corner of his eyes, Obore could see that the guards had lowered their rifles.

"Y'know, as I recall, you didn't actually give me a reason not to clone Jayne Chelsea," he said slowly. "You barely gave me the chance to speak."

"Mister Daniels…" Kjell began.

"But fine. I want Jayne back. And up to two months ago, believe it or not, that's the only reason I joined Emily and her band."

"So you admit it," said Spencer.

"Oh yeah," Obore said, holding out his arms and twirling around, looking at all the guards as he did so. "I liked Jayne, actually. Never realized how much until I was forced to accept that I couldn't see her until the whole triumvirate thing you guys have got going gave her back to me. I figured, hell with it. No waiting. I wanted in now." He smiled, showing his teeth. "In, as in…well, use your imaginations."

"We have," Kaihanga said softly.

"So yeah, I want Jayne back. And hey, I get it, cloning is _so _hard after all. I mean, if you bring back people willy nilly, people might start wanting more. Like reproductive rights."

"Daniels, if you think-"

"Michael Salazar," Obore said. "Hornterra fever, no re-cloning. Paul Murphy, died of a lightning strike, no re-cloning."

"Daniels…"

"Maria and Shaheed Hope, married for over two centuries, trying to alleviate the infertility engineering for over one-hundred and fifty years!" Obore shouted. "Dinh Long, lied to by Council degree over lost memories! Gare Stead, lost his entire family in a landslide outside town, Council refused a DNA salvage operation!"

"That's enough!" Kjell shouted.

"These are their names!" Obore shouted, drawing out a holo-pad from his pocket. A device that had passed the security sweep, much to his relief, and he hoped, the Council's dread. "The names of every single person in my little rabble! Who they are, who they lost, what they want!" He fingered the knob, so that the list extended in height up to the ceiling, and in width to cover half the room. "You want me to keep reading?!"

"Listen to me you son of a bitch," Spencer snarled. "If you think-"

"So yeah, I want Jayne back," Obore said. "I wanted her back so bad I thought I'd stir up the dirt. Only shock of all shocks, the dirt kept in the air. And the only way it's going back down is if you put something in the ground, to keep the dirt in place." He waved the holo-pad. "There's over three and a half thousand names on this list you know. Just a little titbit there."

"Impossible," Kjell murmured. "There haven't been that many casualties."

"No, there haven't. But some people want to chip in, even if they haven't lost anyone, or want children themselves. Human compassion and all that." Obore deactivated the holo-pad, the list disappearing. "So, that leaves you a choice. A few actually. You can read this, or not read it. That's the first choice you have to make."

"And the second?" Spencer sneered.

"Whether you give into our demands or not. Either you start serving the people, or the people are going to keep being a stick in your collective arse."

Obore pocketed the holo-pad. He'd played his hand. Now he had to wait for the Council to play its own, or fold. Not to his surprise, Kaihanga spoke first.

"Mister Daniels does have a point," she said. "If we-"

"Shut up Uku," Spencer snapped, his interruption also not surprising Obore. "We need to-"

"Be quiet Spencer," Kjell said, resting his face in his palm, rubbing his eyes with her fingers.

"But Aukstrom-"

"I said be quiet!"

Obore smirked. Kaihanga the Peacemaker. Spencer the Warmonger. Kjell the Conciliator. Nicknames he'd coined when talking with Emily about how the Council would react. He'd attended enough Council meetings to gauge their personalities.

"Y'know, we can give ground," Obore said. "I mean, give you time to discuss this. Children. Family members back. Decision doesn't have to be made today."

Both Spencer and Kaihanga began to speak. But holding up his hand, removing it from his face, Marietta silenced them both.

"Mister Daniels…" he began slowly. "Do you know why we were formed?"

"What?"

"The Council," she said. "The gene therapy, the specialization in administerial matters. Why, do you think, we were formed? And more to the point, why whittle us down to three?"

Obore shrugged. "Because you killed the rest so you could get power?"

Kjell smiled. "Do you really think that?"

"Sometimes…yeah. I do."

"Good. You're smart then."

Obore's heart skipped a beat. Suddenly the guards and their guns felt a lot more intimidating.

"But no," Kjell said. "We didn't. It was mutual agreement. We made the Council a group of three to get the job done while other members were released into various other professions, their memories erased. With consent of course."

"I doubt that," Obore murmured.

"That's your prerogative," Spencer said. "Just like it's our prerogative to shoot you here and now."

The guards raised their rifles. And Obore's heart stopped.

"See?" Spencer said. "You're scared. You're thinking, this is it. The end. Because if I die, why would the Council want me back? Why bring Obore Daniels back when the List is so long? As you're well aware, I might add."

"Spencer…" Kaihanga began.

"So," Kjell said, casting glances at his counterparts. "Here we are. We, the Council. Commanders of the Northern Star. The guardians of humanity. And you, Obore Daniels, a fly in our sights."

"Funny," Obore murmured. "But you don't shoot flies."

"No," Spencer said. "You squash them."

The guards lowered their rifles, and Obore began to wonder if this had been staged. Had the Council anticipated this? His list? His reactions? Had they been considering his demands at all, or merely brought in to prove a point?

"Mister Daniels, as I said, we're at breaking point," Spencer began. "But not at the point you might think."

"What?"

"What I mean is, we're at the point where you either give up your little crusade, or something breaks." He leant forward. "And by something, I mean you."

"Go ahead," Obore said. "CPs, patrol guards. We're ready. Shoot me now, over two-thousand can take my place."

"Obore, we don't clone willy nilly due to the resources involved," Kjell said. "That isn't to say we don't possess the means to."

"Which means?"

"Which means we have a message of our own," the councilman said. "And that's to say, you have one week to disperse. After that, it ends. One way or another."

"Are you threatening me?" Obore asked.

"Yes," said Spencer. "I'd advise you to pay attention."

Obore fingered the holo-pad. Everything…_everything _was just…wrong, he reflected. He'd been brought before the Council. When he and the others had heard the news, they'd celebrated. Emily had to reign herself in from telling the people to go home, to say that they'd won. He'd had to reign himself in as well. Only…only he'd been right. In that. And wrong in everything else.

"Obore…" Kaihanga began. "I'm sorry. But we can't move on this. We have to consider Plymouth as a whole, not the whims of its people. Surely you can understand."

"I understand," Obore whispered. "I fought for them. Died for them. Way I see it, Plymouth's people _are _Plymouth."

Spencer snorted. "You're not a soldier Obore. You're a glorified security guard. You die, Saint Peter isn't going to give you a shoulder to cry on. You've died enough already to know that."

"Glorified security guard huh?" Obore sneered. "Well, that's more than you ever were.

Spencer glared at him.

"You tasked me to protect Plymouth. Well this is me, _protecting _it. And if you're not serving it, I am."

"Mister Daniels!" Kjell shouted.

"Forget it," he said. "I'll relay your message. I'll walk out of here without a fuss also. But just to let you know, I've got a message of my own."

And with that, he turned around. Walking past the guards. Walking past their guns. Walking past the sympathetic gaze of Kostas, and Ramón's far more aggressive one. Only at the door that led out of the chamber did he stop. Only at the door, did he turn around. And speak.

"And that's to let you know…that you can all go to hell."

And he turned around again, ready to head out. Only another security guard was there waiting for him. One with three chevrons on his shoulder. But more importantly, bearing the face of a friend.

"Dinh?" he asked. "Corporal?"

"Sergeant, actually" he said, tapping the stripes.

Obore glanced back at the Council.

"Dinh got promoted," Kjell said. "Cause he knows how to play by the rules. Don't you Dinh?"

Obore met Dinh's gaze again. "Sergeant, eh?" he whispered. "Well, I'd say you know what that's like but the old you isn't in there anymore is he?"

Dinh shifted his eyes and instead focussed it on the pistol holstered in his belt.

"And somehow, he was much less of a bastard."

A silence lingered between the two men. Obore standing in place, Dinh fingering his pistol. It was only broken by Spencer.

"Relax Obore, you're not dying today," the councillor called out. "But Corporal…I mean, _Sergeant_,Dinh is going to be escorting you off the premises. I mean, after that chat last month you had…"

"You told them?" Obore whispered. "After what they did to you?"

"I know what they did," said Dinh softly. "That doesn't matter to me anymore." He met Obore's gaze again. "Obore…it isn't too late. If Jayne were here-"

"Fuck off," Obore hissed. "I'll see myself out."

And walking past his former friend, he did so.

* * *

"**Hell no, we won't go! Hell no, we won't go!"**

Obore watched and listened to the protestors. It was an easily repeatable slogan, but it didn't have the same ring as "freedom, liberty, Rhyldan!" But then again, he supposed, those three things seemed to be slipping further and further away. Freedom and liberty were basically the same thing anyway, and Rhyldan…hell, the world of Rhyldan might as well have begun and ended within Plymouth's streets.

Things had changed over the last week. He'd relayed the Council's message to Emily and the others, and somehow, word of the ultimatum had leaked. And in response, the protestors had taken things to the next level. Their site of protest had moved away from the Council building, into the cross-junction of Darre and Rodriguez Streets. Barricades had been set up at every junction. At each of those junctions was a horde of CPs. All of them carrying weaponry, all of them wearing body armour. And all of them, Obore had reflected more than once, better equipped than he'd ever been while out on patrol.

"It's a show of force," Emily had told him when he'd brought it up. "Don't give in. They're glass cannons, only without the ability to fire."

Obore tried to believe her. That the Council was willing to spend time and credits for the sake of a show of force rather than protecting easily cloneable humans didn't surprise him in the slightest.

And there was the homogenization factor too – Civil Protection had always been part of New Plymouth, but it seemed that standard security and patrol troopers like himself had been merged into a single monolithic unit. And opposing them were the protestors, wearing every kind of clothing imaginable, and even more symbols. Waving flags. Burning tires. Some of them even carrying weapons snagged from the town armoury or yanked off CP officers. Sometimes with lethal results.

"**Hell no, we won't go! Hell no, we won't go!"**

The crowd kept chanting. Walking away from the barricade, Obore made his way to a seat. A sofa one of the protestors had taken out of their house and moved here for the same of small comfort.

"Hey Obore? What's wrong?"

That he couldn't find as Murphy approached him.

"You okay?"

He looked at Murphy, waving a rifle in one hand and carrying a flag in the other. Obore forced a smile.

"Yeah, sure," he said. "Fine."

"Atta boy," Murphy said, patting him on the shoulder. "Show those Council fucks eh?"

"Yeah," Obore murmured, watching Murphy walk off, wincing as he let off a trio of single shots into the air. Not the first round of projectiles targeted at the sky in the past week, and he doubted it would be the last either. Sighing, he sat down in the sofa.

"Obore?"

And closed his eyes as he heard Emily's voice.

"Obore, what's wrong?" she asked. "You feeling okay?"

"No Emily," he said. "I'm not okay."

It was a physical truth – he had a headache, and all the yelling and gunshots weren't making things any easier on him. But as Emily sat beside him, he could tell that it was only the mental element that she was interested in. And as the de facto leader over the past week, even with him being the supposed champion of the cause, he could tell.

"Come on Obore," she said. "Level with me."

"Level," he said. "Right. Level."

"Obore, if this is about the Council-"

"Dammit, of course it's about the Council!" he hissed.

Rubbing his eyes, he glanced out at the crowd. Murphy behaving like a madman. Boggs dressed as if he'd been in a fight, paint representing blood, waving a CP's helmet around on a pole.

"They're not going to break," he said. "They don't have to. Y'know why?"

"Enlighten me."

"Because we're breaking ourselves," he whispered.

Obore lay back in the couch, closing his eyes. In his mind, he could see Dinh, back at _Bolton's Bar_. He could see Kostas and Ramón, now CPs, now enemies. He could see the Council's smug faces. He could see Jayne…

"Obore, come on," Emily said. "It's been a week, the Council's done jack. They-"

"Emily, when we started this, do you remember what you said?" he asked. "Petitions. Grassroots activism. Protests a possibility."

"I did say that," Emily responded. "What's your point?"

"This," he said, gesturing his hands around. "This isn't a protest, it's a farce."

"Farce?!" she exclaimed. "We've got half of Plymouth on our side!"

"So what?" he asked. "That means nothing if we're killing CPs, firing guns, acting like maniacs!"

"I don't believe this," Emily said. "You have more reason to hate the Council than any of us. You were with me every step of the way. And now you're just giving up?"

"I didn't say that," Obore answered. "It's just…I'm tired, okay? I wanted Jayne back. I didn't want to start a war."

"This isn't a war," Emily said as more screams sounded. "Not yet at least. But if the Council wants a war, they'll get a war. If they give me Michael back, they'll prevent a war."

"And everyone else?" Obore asked. "If you get Michael back, but everyone else is left out in the cold, is that enough? Do you still want children? Or is your dear husband the only thing you care about? And if it comes to war, how many people have to die in it?"

"Then they'll be cloned."

"Right. Of course," Obore sighed, remembering Jayne. Seeing her face as she died, as Dinh casually executed her in the certainty she'd return to the world of the living later. "Life's much simpler that way isn't it?"

Emily opened her mouth to speak. But what she would have said, Obore never found out. Because that was when he saw Murphy running up to him, tossing him a handgun.

"Heads up," he said. "Got trouble."

Obore caught the gun, deciding not to point out that Murphy had tossed him a loaded weapon, and one without the safety on. "What kind of trouble?"

He waved his rifle towards the side of the barricade that pointed towards the Council building. "Best see yourself."

Emily didn't need any prompting, and began heading over, following the majority of protestors for that matter. After some hesitation, Obore followed. But only got there after grabbing Murphy by the collar with one hand, and flipping the pistol's safety on with his other.

"Little tip," he whispered. "If you ever do something like that again, I'll shoot you myself."

And he let go and stormed off, ignoring Murphy's protests. And questions as to what he'd done in the first place.

And then he reached the front of the barricade. And all thoughts of Murphy vanished from his mind.

_Things _were walking towards them. Bi-pedal, black things. All in black metal, all with a rotary cannon in place of a right arm, being chain-fed from an ammunition pack mounted on their spines. About twenty of them, all about three metres tall.

"The hell?" Emily whispered, her voice deafening in the silence that had fallen over the protestors. She looked at Obore. "The hell is this?"

Obore remained silent. As the things drew closer, he could see that they were machines. All walking in unison. Filling the entire breadth of the street. Behind them he could see the CPs.

"Obore, what do we do?" Emily asked.

He remained silent.

"Obore, what do we do?!"

He was still silent. One week. The Council had given the protestors one week. And now…that week was up. This was their breaking point.

**Protestors, **droned a robotic voice. **This is Peacekeeper Unit One. By Council order, you are to cease and desist illegal activities and return to assigned activities.**

"Robots," Murphy whispered, as he took up position by the barricade. "Dark Matter, they're actually _robots_."

**Failure to comply will result in the use of force, **the voice droned again, as the robots kept walking.

"Obore," Emily hissed. "Orders?"

"Stand firm," he whispered. "It's just a show."

"What?"

"They're robots. They're not going to…to…"

And he trailed off. His mouth hung open. Sweat dropped down his brow, and he felt _ill_.

They weren't robots. He could see that now. Between the metal was flesh. Their heads were half organic, a mesh of wires and skin, rectangular units built into their skulls. They were cyborgs. Mnemosynes of a sort, probably – original creations through a splicing of genetic material from numerous sources rather than using a single individual as a template. Bred in the cloning facility, melded with steel, sent to kill. The Council's breaking point. The thing Dinh had warned him about a month ago. Had he known? And if so, Obore wondered what his reaction was?

**Stand down and comply with directive, **the voice droned again. **Use of force has been authorized.**

"Go to hell you rustbuckets!"

"Get outta here!"

"Hell no, we won't go! Hell no, we won't go!"

The robots stopped. And Obore felt even more sweat run down his head.

"No," he whispered. "Oh no…"

Up until now, he'd advocated the approach of doing nothing. Let the robots (and through them, the Council) show their hand before he played his. See how far they would go. But while Emily, Murphy, and those in his proximity had obliged, some other protestors hadn't. Some had climbed over the barricades. Some with guns. Some with rocks.

**Stand down, **the voice droned, Obore realizing it came from the cyborg in the front centre. The one with what looked like a loudspeaker in place of a jaw. **Stand down. Stand down.**

"Fuck off!"

"You want some!?"

And they started pelting them with stones.

**Stand down.**

They kept throwing them.

**Stand down.**

"Get back here!" Obore yelled. He climbed over the barricade.

**Stand down.**

"Freedom! Liberty! Rhyldan!"

**Stand down. Stand down.**

Obore tried to call something out but the words caught in his throat. The cyborgs had stopped moving. Their rotary cannons were starting to spin. The rocks kept being thrown.

"This is for freedom!"

"Liberty!"

"Rhyldan!"

"Move!" Obore yelled, running over to them. "Move before-"

"Obore!" Emily yelled.

**Threat detected. Initiating response.**

"Freedom!"

"Rhyldan!"

"Life and liberty!"

"Move before-"

The bullets came.

Obore dived down to the ground. He watched as the protestors who had climbed over the barricade began to dance. Like an careless artist, red emanated from their bodies. Limbs were torn from their sockets, as if they were sculptures being attacked by a vindictive mason. The light in their eyes faded like the setting sun. And Obore realized one thing…

He would never forget. No matter how many lives he lived, how many bodies he used, he would never forget this moment.

Then he realized that he had to start crawling. Because these cyborgs, these _Peacekeepers_, were still firing. His followers were firing back. And so far, all the damage was one sided.

_Shit._

He kept crawling. He stumbled over a body.

_Shit!_

And still he kept crawling. Into an alcove by a grocery store. Boarded up. A sign saying "closed due to riots."

He laughed. Riots. The owner had no idea.

Then he stopped laughing. Because there was too much screaming for that.

The protestors were scattering, their small arms useless against the Peacekeepers' hides. Their own flesh torn apart by the 20mm rounds, the makeshift barricades only slightly less useless. He stopped laughing because he watched. Watched because these people were dying. Clones, judairs…they were still _dying_. And he owed it to them to watch. To ensure that he never forgot. That _no-one _ever forgot.

He saw Murphy firing. He saw his head be cloven in two by one of the cannon rounds.

He saw Boggs trying to carry a wounded protestor to safety. Their bodies erupted in blood, the red liquid covering the war paint he'd put on. His own body joined them.

He didn't see Emily. Perhaps she'd taken the hint and gone to ground like he had. Perhaps she was already dead.

And he saw more people. Some of them he knew. Many of them he didn't. Dancing as the bullets hit them. Dying as the dances ended. As if Death himself was the puppet master, and they were all connected to him through strings.

And then it stopped. Just like that, it stopped. The guns stopped. The Peacekeepers stopped. The dying stopped.

The screaming and wailing remained though. And he shut his eyes. Because now, he couldn't meet theirs. Now, all he needed was sound to know what had happened. What the Council had done. What _he'd _done.

**Daniels, Obore.**

He kept them closed. He could hear the Peacekeeper approaching him. Could hear it talking. He didn't need to see Death's face.

**Sergeant, Charlie Squad. Designation Charlie One, service number…**

Charlie Squad. Sergeant. He let out a sob and closed his eyes tighter. He could see lesoo. He could see himself in the forests around Plymouth.

**For charges of sedition, civil unrest, terrorism…**

Could see Jayne.

**You are under arrest.**

The Peacekeeper yanked him to his feet. And he opened his eyes and met its gaze. The gaze of one brown eye, one glowing red one. Saw the other Peacekeepers and CPs moving in on the crowd. Saw the face of his enemy.

The face of evil.

And one that, he swore again, to never forget.

* * *

_A/N_

_This chapter was originally quite different at the start. The idea was that the Peacekeepers opened fire rather than being provoked, and it played up the idea of the protestors becoming more 'wild' as well. At the time I wrote this, I was influenced by the protests going on in Ukraine, as in, before Russia annexed Crimea. Funny how that already seems like ancient history and now, at the time of posting this chapter, the focus on Eastern Europe has changed significantly._

_But yeah, changed it to this version, where the Peacekeepers are provoked. It matches canon (how stones were pelted) and allows moral ambiguity to remain. Hopefully._


	6. Stability

_Name: Daniels, Obore_

_Gender: Male_

_Ethnicity: Caucasian_

_Biological Age: 35_

_Height: 1.89m_

_Weight: 81kg_

_Hair Colour: Black_

_Eye Colour: Brown_

_Position: Patrol, Charlie Leader, Sergeant (defunct)/leader of current sedition movement_

_Status: Incarcerated in town jailhouse_

_Length: Indeterminate_

Penitentiary form filed for Obore Daniels. Stored in Council Archive

* * *

**The Repopulation: The Price of Freedom**

**Chapter 6: Stability**

_In his dreams, he was on Earth. _

_He was lying down in the garden, listening to music. It was winter, but at this time of year and in this part of the world, that amounted to what used to be called summer. _

"_Obore?"_

_He was asleep. Within his dream, he dreamt. He was due back at JPL next week, and he'd barely done any of the work he'd had to. It was too warm._

"_Obore!"_

_The voice called again, and he drifted in and out of his dream's dream. He heard footsteps. Heard more words. Heard the sound of birds, singing the song of a long dead world._

"_Obore, wake up."_

_He opened his eyes. And saw a blur. Always a blur._

"_Obore, you have to wake up."_

_He strained his eyes against the winter's sun. He strained to see the blur before him._

"_JPL wants you. The-"_

_He couldn't see her. He couldn't recognise her voice. Always he came back to Earth. To the moment when he learnt of the commissioning of the _Northern Star_. Of one of the last times he would see...see..._

_He no longer saw. The blur had taken form as it always did. Into Jayne. Her body riddled with bullets. Her face cruel. The light in her eyes dancing like devils._

"_Wake up Obore," she said._

_In the dream, he shivered. In the waking world, he shivered more._

"_Wake up and smell the ashes."_

* * *

Obore couldn't remember ever being in the jailhouse.

He couldn't remember _anyone _ever being in the jailhouse. Drunk tanks, sure. Community service, sure. But when one could be cloned ad infinitum, the concept of incarceration as a form of punishment lost a lot of its impact. Even in the rare event of a murder, community service was the de facto punishment. Hard service, but service all the same.

In theory. But now, lying against the wall, shivering as snow drifted through the bars of the cell's sole window, Obore knew that theory to be wrong. Because there _was _a deterrent in incarceration, and that was the discomfort he was feeling. He was shivering, the cold cutting through him like a blade of frost. He was dehydrated, his dry breath appearing in the air before him. He coughed, again and again, bringing his duster around himself for warmth. But it wasn't enough. Not while Rhyldan's winter was in effect.

Obore sighed, leading to another bout of coughing. It had been autumn when this had started, he recalled. When he'd been happy patrolling, killing lesoo, watching Jayne die. But months had passed since then. Enough of them for the seasons to change. For the world to get colder, mirroring the climate of Terra. For the people inhabiting that world to become colder as well. And every time he closed his eyes, he was reminded of that. The cyborgs. The screams. The blood. The deaths. In the day, it was the only thought that he could fall back on. At night…it consumed him. Jayne was the most common visitor in his dreams, but by no means the only.

He closed his eyes. Already he could see the carnage. Already he could hear the screams…

And then he heard a door open, the sound prompting his eyes to open. Heard footsteps. And kept shivering and coughing all the same. Even as he heard the footfalls (three pairs of feet, by the sound of it), he kept his gaze on the wall. The stone wall, unmarked by any counting of days, or symbols, or whatever it was people did on Terra. It was clean, unblemished. Unused. It disgusted him.

"Daniels, Obore," came a voice.

Disgusted him because it was like the Council and Peacekeepers. Devoid of any humanity. Something he'd have to face for the month he'd been in here.

"Get up," the voice said.

The footsteps had stopped. And he kept staring at the wall.

"I said get up," the voice repeated.

He kept staring.

"Come on Obore," the voice said, a bit gentler this time. "I know you well enough to guess that you don't want to be freezing in here."

Obore laughed. Laughed until the coughing started again. And only after that faded did he meet the gaze of the one talking to him. The one whose voice he'd recognised as soon as he heard it. A voice that he hadn't heard in a month, though was still the first in that time – the daily visit of a CP to give him food and water never involved any conversation.

"Know me…" he whispered. "You don't fucking know me at all Dinh…"

Sergeant Dinh Long stood before him, flanked by two other CP officers. All of them wearing CP greys with black body armour, pistols, handcuffs, and other miscellanea attached to their belts.

"Does it help you?" Obore asked. "Wearing that stuff? Do you like being a glorified security guard?" He blinked – Spencer had called him the same thing less than two months ago.

_Going crazy in here._

"Civil Protection, security, and patrol are a single unit now," said Dinh impassively.

"Oh, right," Obore said, regaining his senses, remembering how much he hated Spencer and everyone associated with him. Dinh included. And your cyborgs-"

"Peacekeepers."

Obore laughed again, and again, was interrupted by coughing. "Peacekeepers. Right. I…" He trailed off, as the retching began again. His throat felt like it was on fire. He kept coughing. So when Dinh offered him a flask of water through the bars, he took it and started drinking. On instinct. An instinct that right now, overrided anything else, including his loathing of the man.

"Obore," Dinh said. "What happened was terrible. I admit that, the Council admits that…"

Obore spat the water out.

"But it's over, okay? People died. And you have to admit, you have to shoulder some of the blame."

Obore sighed, returning his gaze to the wall. "I had such high hopes for you, y'know? Dinh Long. The man robbed of his memories. A champion of the cause." He glanced back at the man. "You have more reason to hate the Council than I do."

"Well I don't," Dinh answered. "Whatever that man was, the former Dinh Long…he died. I'm me."

"You're not you, Dinh. You're just this version of you."

"And that's enough for me. I can't miss what I don't remember."

"Well I do," Obore said, coughing again. "The old you was my friend."

"Open the door," he heard Dinh say. A moment later he heard one of the CPs doing just that.

"The old you was a human being."

He heard footsteps.

"Not some complicit thug who-"

And he coughed again. Courtesy of a boot into his chest.

"Listen to me," he heard Dinh say. "It's winter. It's over. Now get on your feet or I'll drag you to the Council myself."

"Fuck off."

Dinh kicked him again. "Didn't you hear me?"

"Yeah…" Obore rasped. "I still said fuck off."

A third kick didn't arrive. Instead, the other CPs dragged him to his feet. He found himself wobbling as he stood up. A month of incarceration had taken its toll.

"Obore, I don't expect you to like me, or forgive me, or maybe even respect me," Dinh said. "But you're being given a second chance. And many who were killed by the Peacekeepers…they weren't so lucky."

"Yeah…" Obore rasped. "And who pulled the trigger?"

Dinh didn't answer. He gestured to the CPs who started dragging Obore away.

"You did, you realize that don't you?" Obore asked. "The moment you shot Jayne. That's when the first shots were fired."

"It's called mercy Obore. Learn to appreciate it."

Obore laughed. And despite the urge to cough, kept laughing. He only stopped once he got outside (not a long trip by any means). When he saw the jeep waiting for him. When he saw the softly falling snow, blanketing the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. When he saw it accumulating on a marching Peacekeeper, towering over some people trying to look like they had no interest in the man exiting the jailhouse.

Stopped because as he got into the jeep, realized that he was right. This had begun the moment that Dinh had shot Jayne.

Yet he was the one who'd chambered the next clip.

* * *

Only Kjell was in the Council room. Courtesy of the flu, Kostas had told him, in the few words he'd exchanged with Obore, while Ramon had refused to meet his gaze at all. It had caused Obore to laugh again. Death could be reversed, yet the common cold was beyond humanity's reach to cure. And as he'd broken out into another fit of coughs, he was reminded of that on another level.

Yet here he was. Sitting before Councilman Aukstrom Kjell, the man's face buried into the terminal mounted on his desk. Obore had looked around in the silence. Only two CPs were in the room this time, both at the door, and both without body armour or rifles. Somehow, he didn't find the absence of such things comforting.

"Obore…" Kjell said eventually, still keeping his gaze fixed on the terminal. "Do you know what I'm doing?"

"I don't care."

"Just guess."

Obore sighed, taking a sip of water from a plastic cup. "Taxes."

"No."

"A novel?"

"No."

Obore sighed. "Just tell me Kjell. I'm too tired to play the guessing game."

"Fine," Kjell said, pressing a button to cause the terminal's image to be displayed towards Obore. "I'm looking at everyone you killed."

Obore scrunched the plastic cup, water spilling on the floor. Like blood.

"Specifically, everyone who died on the day the Peacekeepers opened fire. How many deaths. How many injuries. And how many had their judairs destroyed by the cannon rounds."

Obore remained silent.

"Would you like to know?" Kjell asked.

Obore nodded, not meeting his gaze.

"Say it."

"Obore sighed. "How…how many?"

"How many what?"

"How many…people...died."

"Well, let's see…you had around three-thousand followers that were physically present," Kjell said. "Of that number, we had 1038 injuries." He got up from his desk and started walking slowly to Obore. "Two-hundred and nine deaths." He reached Obore's chair, putting a hand on it. "And do you know how many permanent deaths there were, Obore? How many people were not only killed but had their judairs destroyed in the process?"

The former trooper remained silent.

"Sixty-five."

Obore coughed again. His eyes were watering. Partly because of flu. Partly because of something else.

"So, in essence, in a single day, Plymouth's population dropped by one percent," Kjell said. He gestured towards one of the CPs, who brought a chair forward. "Not much when you put it like that, is it?"

Obore said nothing.

"I said, it's not much, is it?"

He remained silent. Kjell sat down in the chair the CP had provided.

"Tell me Obore?" he asked. "What _would _have been too much?"

"One."

"I'm sorry?"

"One," Obore whispered. He met Kjell's gaze. "One death would be too much."

Kjell nodded. "I'm glad we agree."

"But no matter what you tell yourself at night, I'm not the one who pulled the trigger," Obore said, his voice firmer than before. "If you're looking for salvation, or vindication, or whatever it is that lets you crawl out of bed and look in the mirror every day, you're not going to get it from me."

A silence lingered between the two men. Three, if that included the CP standing by them. Obore glanced over at him. The man just faced him.

"Alright if I have more water?" he asked.

The CP looked at Kjell. The councilman looked up.

"Get him some water."

"Sir, that-"

"I said get him some fucking water!"

The CP scampered off. And Obore laughed. Laughed without any cough lurking in his throat to interrupt it.

"You think it's funny do you?" Kjell asked.

Obore sighed. "Oh, it's just…y'know…" He trailed off. "Actually, I don't know. I don't know anything." He took the cup that the CP offered him. "So tell me Kjell. What don't I know?"

"I don't follow."

"Simple," Obore said, sipping the water. "You've brought me here. You could have had me killed, or banished, or tortured, or all of the above. Instead you let me freeze for a month before bringing me here." He coughed. "So what's happened Kjell? Tell me that."

"And why should I?" Kjell asked.

"Because if you don't, you'll get nothing from me."

"You're in no place to bargain Daniels."

"And there's nothing you can do to me that I give a damn about," Obore said. He smirked at the look on Kjell's face. "That's right, even death. Because I think it's established by now that you're quite willing to have sixty-six lives on your hands, aren't you?"

Kjell clenched a fist, and for a moment, Obore thought he'd use it. But he didn't care. He didn't care about physical harm. He didn't care that Kjell was trying to project his own guilt onto him. And he only slightly cared about the prospect of dying. Because when life was as cheap as it was, when people existed in this world that could dictate it, death had a way of becoming cheap as well.

"Alright," Kjell said, unclenching his fist. "Here's the truth. Winter's come. Months of protests and inactivity have cost us. The outlying farms have suffered from lesoo attacks, and the greenhouses were neglected for too long."

"So what's the problem? You've got the CPs and…" Obore snorted, "-_Peacekeepers_, don't you?"

"We do. But that's not what we're here to discuss. What we're here for is to discuss your revolution. And ensure that you accept what everyone else has, and that's that it's over."

"It wasn't a revolution Kjell," Obore said. "You may have made martyrs of us but-"

"_There_ _are no martyrs_," Kjell hissed. "Why do you think you're still alive? Why do you think that death count…the death count on _your _hands I might add-"

"Keep telling yourself that."

"-hasn't got higher?" Kjell snorted. "Salazar's in jail. The rest of your band is in jail, or doing community service, or have tried to distance themselves from the events."

"Bullshit," Obore said. "I was in jail for a month. I was the only one there."

"A new penitentiary," Kjell said. "It's got about one-hundred people in there. We just didn't want them associating with you."

"And let me guess," Obore said, taking a sip of the water. "What happens to them is up to me."

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Kjell said. He got up and started walking around. Obore watched his every movement. So far, this entire scene had been rehearsed. And he had the feeling he had reached the final act.

"Obore, you're a soldier," Kjell said. "You were cloned to be a soldier, you served as a soldier, you…well, you get the picture. And if you become one again, a private in Civil Protection, that'll be the last of it."

"Pardon?"

"Patrol duties, solo operations," Kjell said. "Back to normal, bar a rank change, a chance to secure our frontier again and make amends for what you've done. As long as we get a statement from you, calling your followers to stand down…"

Obore raised an eyebrow. "Followers? What followers?"

Kjell said nothing.

"I said, what followers?" Obore whispered. "What do I have to disavow?"

"Your cause."

"No, that's not it," Obore said, getting to his feet. "The cause…you can't kill a cause, can you? Maybe I can weaken it. Maybe you can too. But you…" He chuckled. "They're out there, aren't they?"

Kjell remained silent.

"Level with me Kjell," Obore said. "Level me, or kill me now. Unless you really do fear martyrs."

Kjell began pacing again. Obore glanced at the CPs, at the windows, at the snow outside. Suddenly he didn't feel so cold. Suddenly, his cough appeared to have given up the ghost.

"Alright," Kjell whispered. "I'll level with you."

"Do tell."

"For a month, there's been…trouble," he said. "Vandalism. Attacks on CPs. Your movement's gone to ground. Some of them, like Emily Salazar, we know of. Salazar, we can keep an eye on. Jail would be nice, but we need her for the greenhouse work. Many others, we don't have our eye on, who may be doing Dark knows what." Kjell sighed. "That's why we want you in the field Obore. To show them that you're on our side." He sighed. "You brought us to the brink Obore. And as much as I'd like to see you dead for it, I need you to take us back."

"The hell you do," Obore said. "And like hell you'll get my help."

"Obore, if you think you can subvert our values-"

"Values?!" he yelled, getting to his feet and turning over his chair. "You want values, Kjell? I'll give you values!" He formed a fist. "Life!" he yelled, forming a finger. "Liberty! Family!"

"Security," Kjell said, doing counting of his own. "Service. Stability. What happened to those values Obore?"

"What happened to the others?"

"They died," Kjell said. "Died the moment we left Terra. You think liberty and family matter, Obore? You think life does when we can replace it on a whim?"

"Funny how slow you were getting round to that before."

"Resources, Obore. Resources we've had to pour into Civil Protection instead."

"Instead of spending them on cloning and gene therapy and giving the people what they wanted."

"To hell with the people."

Obore remained silent, his eyes narrowing.  
"We're the future of the human race," Kjell said, his eyes narrowing. "Service, security, stability, community. Those are the values that we need Obore. The values _you _served as a patrol grunt. And thanks to one person's death, you decided to toss them out."

"No," Obore whispered.

"No what?"

"No," he said. "I kept them. I served the people. I served the community. It used to be about Jayne, but not anymore. Not only her. And to answer your question, liberty, family, life…they do matter to me, Kjell. They matter because every time I close my eyes, I see those people dying. I see Jayne dying. I see the real Sergeant Long. And I remember that I'm living in a society that allows those kinds of things to happen."

"Don't lecture me Obore."

"Fine, I won't," he said softly. "I'll offer you a deal then."

"Like I said before," Kjell murmured. "You're in no bargaining position."

"Bargain or not, here's my terms," he said. "You let us go."

"What?"

"Let us go," Obore whispered. "Me, and everyone else who wants to follow me. Our own community. Autonomy, recognition, diplomatic ties if you want that. But I can't stay here Kjell. Not if you think those values I believe in are worth so little."

"Listen to me you little shit," Kjell hissed. "If you think-"

"Here's my deal," Obore said. "My service. In return, amnesty for my followers. I broach the question with them. Anyone who wants to leave is free to do so."

"No," Kjell said. "I'm not tearing Plymouth apart just because you think…that you think…"

Obore chuckled. "That's the problem isn't it Kjell? I do think. I started thinking for myself the moment you refused to bring Jayne back." He held out a hand. "But whether that's a problem or not is up to you."

* * *

_A/N_

_The flashback wasn't in the original version of this story, but external feedback prompted the idea of having Obore reminisce on Earth. I decided to go with it, but only towards the end of the story, as there otherwise wasn't an incentive for him to do so. And looking at this now, I guess that's another _Half-Life _inspiration I threw in the story. Go figure._


	7. Solitude

_On Earth, the use of force to deal with civil disobedience only resulted in more of that disobedience, and at times, something worse. Yet in light of what would be known as the "Peace Massacre," the opposite was true, at least in the immediate sense. Why was that the case?_

_The reason is simple. Rhyldan isn't Earth. With the onset of winter, dwindling food supplies, and the threat of lesoo, people put life before liberty. The Council had the guns. The Council had the authority. And the Council was ruling over a small society that had to cooperate from day one to survive. On that day, three centuries after leaving Earth and nearly fifty years post-settlement, Obore Daniels's rebel movement died. _

_As did sixty-five other people._

A History of Rhyldan (excerpt)

* * *

**The Repopulation: The Price of Freedom**

**Chapter 7: Solitude**

"Was it always like this?"

"As in, a Peacekeeper standing by the gate? The lack of any troopers beside me? These greys?"

"Greys look kinda good actually. Way better than your old duster."

"I respectfully disagree on that."

It wasn't a lie, Obore reflected. He did miss his duster. The CP gear had the benefit of better body armour, but it was winter, and the duster would have actually had a chance of keeping him warm. And he missed it because of other reasons. Because wearing these greys, wearing the uniform that had snuck its way into Plymouth over the months as per the merging of Civil Protection with other branches…it was a reminder. A reminder that he was back to doing the Council's work, the protection of Plymouth's citizens being incidental. It was a reminder of the loss of individuality. It was a reminder of how, like the Peacekeeper standing by the gate leading out of Plymouth, swivelling on its axis with its cannons drifting with its body, he was part of the system.

And he hated it.

"Anyway," Emily said, following Obore as he made his way over to the gatehouse, "you'll be pleased to know that your different settlement idea is starting to pick up steam."

"How much steam?"

"A few hundred on the petition at last count. But it's early days yet."

"Yeah," Obore murmured. "Early days."

Emily sighed. "Look, you could try to be a bit more enthusiastic. I mean-"

"What it means," Obore said, "is that people are willing to sign a piece of paper. It doesn't mean that they'll actually make the jump to joining a new settlement."

"But it's a sign of defiance. A reminder to the Council that we're not going to forget the Peace Massacre."

"Right," Obore said, gesturing at the Peacekeeper near the gate behind him as they walked over to the gatehouse. The same kind of automaton that had led to the "Peace Massacre," as it had been dubbed, in the first place. "Because right now, that's all the defiance we can muster."

Obore ignored Emily's protests as they kept walking, the snow crunching under their feet. Two weeks had passed since he'd been reinstated as a patroller, though since everything was under CP now, "reinstated" wasn't quite the correct term. In those two weeks, Kjell had dismissed his idea of a sister settlement every time he asked. In those two weeks, he'd gone on seven patrols, always alone, operating in the same territory he had when he could count on Dinh and Jayne to be at his side. In those two weeks, he'd had Emily spread the word.

"Private Daniels?"

And he wanted to believe it would come to something. He really did. But day after day, it was getting harder to see that.

"Private?"

"Yeah," he said, reflecting on his new rank, the old offer of sergeant having gone the same way as his sense of self-worth. "Hit me."

Roberto looked at him funny, and Obore looked back. The man looked older, had a beard, and was wearing a beanie over his head, rubbing gloved hands together in the winter chill. The physical changes weren't that drastic, but it felt like they hadn't seen each other in years. Not the months that had passed since Obore had last passed through the gate on patrol. Even two weeks into the job and Roberto still felt like a stranger.

"Here," Roberto said, handing Obore a pistol and spare clip. Obore holstered them.

"And this," Roberto continued,, placing a rifle on the gatehouse counter along with a pair of clips, "is the M-seven-seven. Latest model."

"Right," Obore said, pocketing the two clips, wondering what the difference was between all the other rifles he'd used in the past. "How nice of the Council to get on with the job of providing better weapons. Coulda used it a year or so ago but-"

"See this baby on the side?" Roberto asked, apparently oblivious to Obore's contempt. He pressed a button on the rifle's right, a terminal popping out of it. It displayed a red dot that Obore supposed was his location, and a line of blue dots that made their way out of the city. "Topographic display of the area. No more getting lost or deviation from the patrol route."

Obore remained silent, appreciating the difference that did indeed exist. All this tech, all this body armour…in the old days, he would have given anything for it. Now…as he slung the rifle over his shoulder, he felt dirty just wearing it. As if he was endorsing the Council's militarization of Plymouth in light of all the damage that militarization had caused in the first place.

_Or you caused._

Obore winced. He was working for the Council. Being the good lapdog Kjell wanted him to be. And deep down, on some level, that level reserved for guilt, doubt, and memory, he felt...that he deserved it.

"Oh, and Obore?" Roberto called out after him. "Keep it up, alright."

"Yeah, sure. Patrol."

"No, I mean, the good fight." Obore looked around and Roberto smiled after glancing at the Peacekeeper. "I mean…well that…y'know…you did good…know what the Council says about your followers but…"

"Roberto, I…" Obore trailed off. And slowly smiled. "Thanks."

He turned around, finding Emily waiting for him. Before them was the Rhyldan wilderness, its trees and grass covered in snow. The Peacekeeper at the gate, not appearing as intimidating anymore. Months of civil unrest had taken its toll, and the forest had crept back over summer. He liked it.

"You're smiling," Emily said. "That looks good on you."

"Yeah," Obore said. "It comes and goes."

"I've noticed." She glanced at the Peacekeeper. "Is it really okay to talk like this?"

"The Council knows you Emily, in a way, that makes you safe," Obore said. "They know we're talking, it's the unknowns that they're worried about. Me, I'm to set an example to them. You, they're watching."

"And that probably includes the petition."

"Kjell's covering his arse," Obore said, recalling the conversation he'd had with the man two years ago. "The Peacekeepers screwed up. He knows it, the people know it, hell, he's probably even genuinely guilty about it."

"Can't blame him." Emily sighed. "Y'know, sometimes…I feel guilty too. I mean, we…_I_…started this." She swallowed. "Murphy, Boggs, so many others…they paid the price for that."

"The Peacekeepers pulled the trigger," Obore said. "The Council created them when they could have just as easily re-created the people we wanted returned to us." He put a hand on their shoulder. "I get doubts too. But they fired first. And whatever happens, don't ever forget that."

"And…and Michael?" she whispered, a tear coming down her cheek. "Am I just to remember him for the rest of my life as well?"

"Right now, I don't know how long our lives will be, or how many other chances we'll get," Obore said. "But for now…yeah, remember. Remembering's good."

And with that he turned around, ready to head out into the wilderness. And would have done so if Emily hadn't put a hand on his shoulder.

"By the way," she said. "I never said thank you."

"What for?"

She hugged him. Quickly, non-committedly. "For everything."

Obore remained silent. Everything he'd done. He'd done things for centuries. Done more in the past few months than anything else. And that…that was something he had to live with. For reasons both good and ill.

But seeing Emily's smile, seeing the people dying in his memory, seeing Jayne's face…living with it wasn't so hard right now.

Because he owed it to everyone who wasn't still alive to do so.

* * *

"Zulu-One, what is your status?"

"On patrol, seven klicks into route."

"Roger that. Control out."

Obore winced as he pocketed the radio. Control. There was never a "control" back in the good ol' days. Teams operated together, but there was no enforced radio contact with Plymouth. The opportunity existed, and he'd done so to report Jayne's death, but apart from that…

_Jayne…_

But that was then. This was now. And now…Obore kicked some snow aside as he made his way through the forest. Now he had to report in every fifteen minutes. Not a bad idea as far as lesoo went. But he knew better. Knew that he was reporting in because while the Council wanted him operating for them, they also wanted to keep him on a leash.

Obore kept moving, ducking under some branches but still nudging them, causing snow to fall on his neck. Shivering, he almost wished there _were _lesoo out here. Lesoo were the enemy. An enemy that, he reflected, had good reason to hate humanity. Humanity had come to their world. Humanity was a race of occupiers. And if the lesoo could see what humanity was capable of doing to its own kind…Obore tightened the grip on his rifle. Lesoo were brutal, but he'd never heard of them turning on their own kind.

He kept moving. Shivering in the post-midday air. Watching his breath appear before him. Checking that he was still on his assigned route.

_Follow the blue, follow the blue…ugh, the Yellow Brick Road had so much more charm to it._

Was there a blue road in that film? Obore couldn't remember. Couldn't even remember its name. He'd seen it, on Earth…there was a road…yellow, he recalled…a girl had been there, with companions…

_Dottie?_

He laughed. Companions. He looked to his left. No Dinh Long. No version of the man who was now his enemy. The man who last he heard, had become a lieutenant, calling the shots from Plymouth. He looked to his right. No Jayne Chelsea. No friend. No…no…

Obore stopped. Jayne. Months of bloodshed, of conflict, of bringing Plymouth to the brink. And now…now he was even further from getting Jayne back then when he first learnt her cloning was being postponed. And even now, he missed her. Taking a swig from his water flask, he reflected why. Jayne was a link to something old. A simpler time. A time when he and the rest of Charlie Squad could have walked these woods together. A time when he was serving the Council, the people of Rhyldan, and their values. A time long past.

_Is it really?_

He took another sip. Life, in spite of the ease of cloning. Liberty, for all the risks it posed to that life. Family…something humanity had lost, and as he discovered, wanted again by so many. Service, stability, and security. Kjell's values. Values he even appreciated. Values that had been subverted.

_And solitude?_

Solitude. What he could never have in Plymouth. What he had now. Something that…he sighed. Something…he tossed the flask into the snow. Something that made him realize how empty these woods were. How empty the world was.

"Damn it!"

He threw his rifle to the ground.

"Damn it!"

He punched a tree. Again and again, drawing blood each time as his flesh made contact with its hardened bark. Again. And again.

He only stopped when the bullet hit him in the back.

Obore grunted and tumbled down. His back was numb. His body felt cold. And-

_Shot. Gunfire._

Gunfire erupted all around him. On instinct, he began to crawl.

_The rifle!_

He glanced around, seeing both his rifle, and the trail of blood he was leaving behind. He reached for it. And felt a bullet tear through his arm.

"Gah!"

Obore recoiled and began crawling again. The bullets continued to fly. Bullets fired from rifles he deduced, given the rate of gunfire and the sound they were making.

_Lesoo. Fucking lesoo!_

"Control, this is Zulu-One!" he yelled into his radio, holding it with his left arm while his right continued to bleed. "Under fire by lesoo! Please respond!"

There was only static.

"Control, this is Zulu-One, respond!"

The static continued.

"Control!"

Obore got to his feet. The gunfire continued, but the forest was so thick, he could only see muzzle flashes from the rifles rather than the individuals firing them. As best he could, he drew out his sidearm. As best he could, he fired some shots, though with his right arm bleeding out, his aim was off. And the gunfire kept coming.

_Shit!_

Obore ran. Still trying the radio. Still receiving nothing but static.

"Control, this is-"

And fell again as another bullet tore through his back again. Through both his body armour, and his flesh. Yelling, he tumbled into the snow. Wishing he had his rifle.

_The rifle? The same rifle that led me here?_

Obore felt cold. And not just because of the weather or the blood loss.

_The map. The assigned path. The radio. They-_

More gunfire came his way, but in shorter, controlled bursts. Either the attackers were running out of ammo, or…Obore swallowed…they knew they had him cornered.

_Not like this, _Obore thought, reaching for his pistol. _Not like this!_

But it was. Because another bullet tore through his right arm. Obore yelled as he felt the bullet tear through muscle and bone. Yelled in pain. Frustration. Despair. Cursed.

And fell silent as the lesoo emerged from the forest. Because they weren't lesoo.

They were human. Three of them.

Led by Dinh Long.

"Dinh…" Obore whispered. "What the hell are you-"

Dinh fired a single shot from his pistol. It hit Obore's right leg. And Obore screamed.

"Control, this is Alpha-One," Obore heard Long say. "Target found."

"Dinh…"

"Roger that. Will proceed."

"Dinh, don't-"

Dinh shot him in his left leg, blood spurting out onto the snow. Obore didn't scream this time. He felt too cold…and tired…for that. But not so cold and tired that he couldn't meet Dinh in the eye as he knelt down before him.

"Time's up Obore," he said. He grabbed him by the neck, pulling him forward. And Obore found a pistol pressed to his forehead.

"A quick death," Dinh continued. "Like the one you should have given Jayne."

"Don't…bring…Jayne…"

"What?" Dinh asked. "Don't bring her into this? Well tough shit Obore, you brought her into this the moment you began your temper tantrum."

"Dinh-"

"Don't," he said, getting to his feet. "It's over. I know what the Council did, to both me and the people the day the Peacekeepers opened fire. I've also seen what you've done."

"I didn't…do…"

Dinh sighed. "Let's cut to the chase," he said. "The Council wants you dead. I'm the executioner. Your memories will be uploaded from your judair, transferred into a database, and otherwise erased. The Council will know everyone you talked too over the last three months. Every member of your rabble, everyone who they might have to…take notice of."

"That's…that's…"

"You, however, will be the unfortunate victim of a lesoo ambush."

Obore coughed. The breath misted before him again. He looked up at Dinh.

"Why?" he whispered.

"Why what?"

"Why…all this?" he whispered. "You want me dead, fine. But…" He coughed again, and this time, blood came out. Falling onto the snow like red rain. "This isn't you Dinh."

Dinh sighed.

"The old Dinh…"

"Stop," he whispered. "I told you before, I don't care. The old Dinh Long…he's dead. Just like you are. You're the last Obore Daniels of this make. If, for whatever reason, the Council clones you, the new one will have none of your memories. He'll be a new man. A better man." His gaze narrowed. "You shouldn't have a problem with that, should you?"

Obore laughed, even as blood came out of his mouth. Laughed at the thought of being the "new" Obore Daniels, just as the "new" Dinh Long had been anything but the old.

"So…I die. And get cloned." He coughed. "Do you think there's an afterlife Dinh? You think that there's room for two Dinh Longs up there? Or out there?"

Dinh stared at him.

"I mean…if we're the sum of our memories…and those memories are cut off forever…is that a different soul? Are we effectively creating more than one soul for the same body?"

Dinh sighed. "Don't try philosophy Obore. It doesn't suit you."

"You're…right…" Obore said, coughing again. It was like being back in the jailhouse. Only then he was coughing up phlegm rather than blood. He closed his eyes. "I'm…I'm…"

He couldn't answer. Obore Daniels had died so many times. Every death he lost a little bit of his old self. And this…he wanted to think that it would be no different. That Dinh was making idle threats.

But he couldn't. And he felt a chill run through his body that had nothing to do with the winter air or blood loss. He felt small. He felt afraid.

And he felt a gun be pressed against his forehead. He felt tears in his eyes, a betrayal of his bravado. He felt his heart beating. Felt his thoughts drift to Jayne. Emily. Murphy. Boggs. The Council. Everyone. Anyone who knew him. The old him. Obore Daniels.

He could see the garden, and for one moment, one fleating moment, he was no longer in the snow. He was in the garden. He was warm. He could hear the birds. He could see the green leaves. The blue sky.

"Obore?"

He could hear the voice. He could see the blur. Could see a woman. Black hair. Brown eyes. Similar height and build.

_Jenni. My sister._

His sister. The one he had to leave behind. The one he'd forgotten. Like Earth. Like so many.

"Goodbye Obore."

He heard the voice. But whether it was Jenni's, or Dinh's, he could not tell. And it was overshadowed by the sound of a gun clicking.

"Goodbye," he whispered.

Nor did he know who his own words were directed towards. If anyone. But he knew one thing...Obore Daniels...the Obore who had lived on Earth centuries ago, the one who had looked to and travelled the stars...was dead. In a way, this was just a formality.

He felt something hit his forehead. For a moment, he felt a sense of peace.

And then, he felt nothing.

**The End**

* * *

_A/N_

_And that's that done. Don't have any other _The Repopulation _stories on my "to write" list right now I'm afraid. Current writing focus is on an _Avatar _(movie) story titled _Rainbow_, for what it's worth._


End file.
